BT  W*  JJLONC. 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


WAYS  OF  WOOD  FOLK 


BY 


WILLIAM    J.   LONG 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 
GINN    &    COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

&t&enaettm 

1902 


••— 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 
Bv  WILLIAM   J.  LONG 

ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


To  PLATO,  the  owl,  who  looks 
over  my  shoulder  as  I  write,  and 
who  knows  all  about  the  woods. 


131449 


PREFACE. 


"  A  LL  crows  are  alike,"  said  a  wise  man,  speaking  of 
£*•  politicians.  That  is  quite  true  —  in  the  dark.  By 
daylight,  however,  there  is  as  much  difference,  within  and 
without,  in  the  first  two  crows  one  meets  as  in  the  first  two 
men  or  women.  I  asked  a  little  child  once,  who  was  telling  me 
all  about  her  chicken,  how  she  knew  her  chicken  from  twenty 
others  just  like  him  in  the  flock.  "  How  do  I  know  my 
chicken?  I  know  him  by  his  little  face,"  she  said.  And 
sure  enough,  the  face,  when  you  looked  at  it  closely,  was 
different  from  all  other  faces. 

This  is  undoubtedly  true  of  all  birds  and  all  animals.  They 
recognize  each  other  instantly  amid  multitudes  of  their  kind  ; 
and  one  who  watches  them  patiently  sees  quite  as  many  odd 
ways  and  individualities  among  Wood  Folk  as  among  other 
people.  No  matter,  therefore,  how  well  you  know  the  habits 
of  crows  or  the  habits  of  caribou  in  general,  watch  the  first  one 
that  crosses  your  path  as  if  he  were  an  entire  stranger ;  open 
eyes  to  see  and  heart  to  interpret,  and  you  will  surely  find 
some  new  thing,  some  curious  unrecorded  way,  to  give  delight 
to  your  tramp  and  bring  you  home  with  a  new  interest. 


vi  Preface. 

This  individuality  of  the  wild  creatures  will  account,  per- 
haps, for  many  of  these  Ways,  which  can  seem  no  more 
curious  or  startling  to  the  reader  than  to  the  writer  when  he 
first  discovered  them.  They  are,  almost  entirely,  the  records 
of  personal  observation  in  the  woods  and  fields.  Occasionally, 
when  I  know  my  hunter  or  woodsman  well,  I  have  taken  his 
testimony,  but  never  without  weighing  it  carefully,  and  prov- 
ing it  whenever  possible  by  watching  the  animal  in  question 
for  days  or  weeks  till  I  found  for  myself  that  it  was  all  true. 

The  sketches  are  taken  almost  at  random  from  old  note- 
books and  summer  journals.  About  them  gather  a  host  of 
associations,  of  living-over-agains,  that  have  made  it  a  delight 
to  write  them ;  associations  of  the  winter  woods,  of  apple 
blossoms  and  nest-building,  of  New  England  uplands  and 
wilderness  rivers,  of  camps  and  canoes,  of  snowshoes  and 
trout  rods,  of  sunrise  on  the  hills,  when  one  climbed  for  the 
eagle's  nest,  and  twilight  on  the  yellow  wind-swept  beaches, 
where  the  surf  sobbed  far  away,  and  wings  twanged  like  reeds 
in  the  wind  swooping  down  to  decoys,  —  all  thronging  about 
one,  eager  to  be  remembered  if  not  recorded.  Among  them, 
most  eager,  most  intense,  most  frequent  of  all  associations, 
there  is  a  boy  with  nerves  all  a-tingle  at  the  vast  sweet 
mystery  that  rustled  in  every  wood,  following  the  call  of  the 
winds  and  the  birds,  or  wandering  alone  where  the  spirit  moved 
him,  who  never  studied  nature  consciously,  but  only  loved  it, 
and  who  found  out  many  of  these  Ways  long  ago,  guided 
solely  by  a  boy's  instinct. 


Preface.  vii 

If  they  speak  to  other  boys,  as  to  fellow  explorers  in  the 
always  new  world,  if  they  bring  back  to  older  children  happy 
memories  of  a  golden  age  when  nature  and  man  were  not 
quite  so  far  apart,  then  there  will  be  another  pleasure  in 
having  written  them. 

My  thanks  are  due,  and  are  given  heartily,  to  the  editors 
of  The  Youth's  Companion  for  permission  to  use  several 
sketches  that  have  already  appeared,  and  to  Mr.  Charles 
Copeland,  the  artist,  for  his  care  and  interest  in  preparing 
the  illustrations. 

WM.  J.  LONG. 

ANDOVER,  MASS.,  June,  1899. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

I.  FOX-WAYS  .        .        .        .        .        .        .;.•'.*.! 

II.  MERGANSER "...  27 

III.  QUEER  WAYS  OF  BR'ER  RABBIT        .         .       -.        .  41 

IV.  A  WILD  DUCK         ....       V        .      v.  55 
V.  AN  ORIOLE'S  NEST     .         .         .         ...         .         .  69 

VI.  THE  BUILDERS .  77 

VII.  CROW-WAYS 101 

VIII.  ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE 117 

IX.  MOOSE  CALLING        __^     _..         .         .        .                \  121 

X.  CH'GEEGEE-LOKH-SIS         ,_     .         .                 .  135 

XI.  A  FELLOW  OF  EXPEDIENTS        .        .        •.         .         .  152 

XII.  A  TEMPERANCE  LESSON  FOR  THE  HORNETS          .  161 

XIII.  SNOWY  VISITORS 167 

XIV.  A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL       .         .                 .         .         .  181 

XV.  MOOWEEN    THE    BEAR                            187 


THE 

UNIVERSITY 
or 


WAYS    OF    WOOD     FOLK 


I.     FOX-WAYS. 

D  you  ever  meet  a  fox  face  to  face,  sur- 
prising him  quite  as  much  as  yourself? 
If  so,  you  were  deeply  impressed,  no 
doubt,  by  his  perfect  dignity  and  self- 
possession.  Here  is  how  the  meeting 
generally  comes  about. 
It  is  a  late  winter  afternoon.  You  are  swinging 
rapidly  over  the  upland  pastures,  or  loitering  along 
the  winding  old  road  through  the  woods.  The  color 
deepens  in  the  west ;  the  pines  grow  black  against  it ; 
the  rich  brown  of  the  oak  leaves  seems  to  glow  every- 
where in  the  last  soft  light ;  and  the  mystery  that 
never  sleeps  long  in  the  woods  begins  to  rustle 
again  in  the  thickets.  You  are  busy  with  your  own 
thoughts,  seeing  nothing,  till  a  flash  of  yellow  passes 
before  your  eyes,  and  a  fox  stands  in  the  path  before 
you,  one  foot  uplifted,  the  fluffy  brush  swept  aside  in 
graceful  curve,  the  bright  eyes  looking  straight  into 


2  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

yours  —  nay,  looking  through  them  to  read  the  intent 
which  gives  the  eyes  their  expression.  That  is  always 
the  way  with  a  fox ;  he  seems  to  be  looking  at  your 
thoughts. 

Surprise,  eagerness,  a  lively  curiosity  are  all  in 
your  face  on  the  instant ;  but  the  beautiful  creature 
before  you  only  draws  himself  together  with  quiet 
self-possession.  He  lifts  his  head  slightly ;  a  superior 
look  creeps  into  his  eyes ;  he  seems  to  be  speaking. 
Listen  — 

"  You  are  surprised  ?  " — this  with  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible lift  of  his  eyebrows,  which  reminds  you 
somehow  that  it  is  really  none  of  your  affair.  "  O, 
I  frequently  use  this  road  in  attending  to  some 
matters  over  in  the  West  Parish.  To  be  sure,  we 
are  socially  incompatible ;  we  may  even  regard  each 
other  as  enemies,  unfortunately.  I  did  take  your 
chickens  last  week ;  but  yesterday  your  unmannerly 
dogs  hunted  me.  At  least  we  may  meet  and  pass  as 
gentlemen.  You  are  the  older;  allow  me  to  give 
you  the  path." 

Dropping  his  head  again,  he  turns  to  the  left, 
English  fashion,  and  trots  slowly  past  you.  There  is 
no  hurry;  not  the  shadow  of  suspicion  or  uneasiness. 
His  eyes  are  cast  down ;  his  brow  wrinkled,  as  if  in 
deep  thought ;  already  he  seems  to  have  forgotten 
your  existence.  You  watch  him  curiously  as  he  re- 


Fox -Ways.  3 

enters  the  path  behind  you  and  disappears  over  the 
hill.  Somehow  a  queer  feeling,  half-  wonder,  half 
rebuke,  steals  over  you,  as  if  you  had  been  outdone 
in  courtesy,  or  had  passed  a  gentleman  without  suf- 
ficiently recognizing  him. 

Ah,  but  you  did  n't  watch  sharply  enough !  You 
did  n't  see,  as  he  circled  past,  that  cunning  side  gleam 
of  his  yellow  eyes,  which  understood  your  attitude 
perfectly.  Had  you  stirred,  he  would  have  vanished 
like  a  flash.  You  did  n't  run  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
where  he  disappeared,  to  see  that  burst  of  speed  the 
instant  he  was  out  of  your  sight.  You  did  n't  see 
the  capers,  the  tail-chasing,  the  high  jumps,  the  quick 
turns  and  plays  ;  and  then  the  straight,  nervous  gallop, 
which  told  more  plainly  than  words  his  exultation 
that  he  had  outwitted  you  and  shown  his  superiority. 

Reynard,  wherever  you  meet  him,  whether  on  the 
old  road  at  twilight,  or  on  the  runway  before  the 
hounds,  impresses  you  as  an  animal  of  dignity  and 
calculation.  He  never  seems  surprised,  much  less 
frightened ;  never  loses  his  head ;  never  does  things 
hurriedly,  or  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  as  a  scatter- 
brained rabbit  or  meddling  squirrel  might  do.  You 
meet  him,  perhaps  as  he  leaves  the  warm  rock  on  the 
south  slope  of  the  old  oak  woods,  where  he  has  been 
curled  up  asleep  all  the  sunny  afternoon.  (It  is  easy 
to  find  him  there  in  winter.)  Now  he  is  off  on  his 


4  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

nightly  hunt ;  he  is  trotting  along,  head  down,  brows 
deep-wrinkled,  planning  it  all  out. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  is  thinking,  "  last  night  I  hunted 
the  Draper  woods.  To-night  I  '11  cross  the  brook  just 
this  side  the  old  bars,  and  take  a  look  into  that  pas- 
ture-corner among  the  junipers.  There's  a  rabbit 
which  plays  round  there  on  moonlight  nights  ;  I  '11 
have  him  presently.  Then  I  '11  go  down  to  the  big 
South  meadow  after  mice.  I  have  n't  been  there 
for  a  week ;  and  last  time  I  got  six.  If  I  don't  find 
mice,  there 's  that  chicken  coop  of  old  Jenkins. 
Only" —  He  stops,  with  his  foot  up,  and  listens  a 
minute  —  "  only  he  locks  the  coop  and  leaves  the  dog 
loose  ever  since  I  took  the  big  rooster.  Anyway  I  '11 
take  a  look  round  there.  Sometimes  Deacon  Jones's 
hens  get  to  roosting  in  the  next  orchard.  If  I  can 
find  them  up  an  apple  tree,  I  '11  bring  a  couple  down 
with  a  good  trick  I  know.  On  the  way —  Hi, 
there ! " 

In  the  midst  of  his  planning  he  gives  a  grasshopper- 
jump  aside,  and  brings  down  both  paws  hard  on  a 
bit  of  green  moss  that  quivered  as  he  passed.  He 
spreads  his  paws  apart  carefully;  thrusts  his  nose 
down  between  them ;  drags  a  young  wood-mouse 
from  under  the  moss ;  eats  him ;  licks  his  chops 
twice,  and  goes  on  planning  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 


Fox  -  Ways.  5 

"  On  the  way  back,  I  '11  swing  round  by  the  Fales 
place,  and  take  a  sniff  under  the  wall  by  the  old 
hickory,  to  see  if  those  sleepy  skunks  are  still  there 
for  the  winter.  I  '11  have  that  whole  family  before 
spring,  if  I  'm  hungry  and  can't  find  anything  else. 
They  come  out  on  sunny  days  ;  all  you  have  to  do  is 
just  hide  behind  the  hickory  and  watch." 

So  off  he  goes  on  his  well-planned  hunt ;  and  if 
you  follow  his  track  to-morrow  in  the  snow,  you  will 
see  how  he  has  gone  from  one  hunting  ground  directly 
to  the  next.  You  will  find  the  depression  where  he 
lay  in  a  clump  of  tall  dead  grass  and  watched  a  while 
for  the  rabbit ;  reckon  the  number  of  mice  he  caught 
in  the  meadow ;  see  his  sly  tracks  about  the  chicken 
coop,  and  in  the  orchard ;  and  pause  a  moment  at  the 
spot  where  he  cast  a  knowing  look  behind  the  hickory 
by  the  wall,  —  all  just  as  he  planned  it  on  his  way  to 
the  brook. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  stand  by  one  of  his  run- 
ways while  the  dogs  are  driving  him,  expecting,  of 
course,  to  see  him  come  tearing  along  in  a  desperate 
hurry,  frightened  out  of  half  his  wits  by  the  savage 
uproar  behind  him,  you  can  only  rub  your  eyes  in 
wonder  when  a  fluffy  yellow  ball  comes  drifting 
through  the  woods  towards  you,  as  if  the  breeze 
were  blowing  it  along.  There  he  is,  trotting  down 
the  runway  in  the  same  leisurely,  self-possessed  way, 


6  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts  apparently,  the  same 
deep  wrinkles  over  his  eyes.  He  played  a  trick  or 
two  on  a  brook,  down  between  the  ponds,  by  jumping 
about  on  a  lot  of  stones  from  which  the  snow  had 
melted,  without  wetting  his  feet  (which  he  dislikes), 
and  without  leaving  a  track  anywhere.  While  the 
dogs  are  puzzling  that  out,  he  has  plenty  of  time  to 
plan  more  devices  on  his  way  to  the  big  hill,  with  its 
brook,  and  old  walls,  and  rail  fences,  and  dry  places 
under  the  pines,  and  twenty  other  helps  to  an  active 
brain. 

First  he  will  run  round  the  hill  half  a  dozen  times, 
crisscrossing  his  trail.  That  of  itself  will  drive  the 
young  dogs  crazy.  Then  along  the  top  rail  of  a 
fence,  and  a  long  jump  into  the  junipers,  which  hold 
no  scent,  and  another  jump  to  the  wall  where  there  is 
no  snow,  and  then  — 

"  Oh,  plenty  of  time,  no  hurry  ! "  he  says  to  himself, 
turning  to  listen  a  moment.  "  That  dog  with  the  big 
voice  must  be  old  Roby.  He  thinks  he  knows  all 
about  foxes,  just  because  he  broke  his  leg  last  year, 
trying  to  walk  a  sheep-fence  where  I  'd  been.  I  '11 
give  him  another  chance ;  and  oh,  yes  !  I  '11  creep  up 
the  other  side  of  the  hill,  and  curl  up  on  a  warm  rock 
on  the  tiptop,  and  watch  them  all  break  their  heads 
over  the  crisscross,  and  have  a  good  nap  or  two,  and 
think  of  more  tricks." 


Fox -Ways.  7 

So  he  trots  past  you,  still  planning;  crosses  the 
wall  by  a  certain  stone  that  he  has  used  ever  since 
he  was  a  cub  fox ;  seems  to  float  across  an  old  pas- 
ture, stopping  only  to  run  about  a  bit  among  some 
cow  tracks,  to  kill  the  scent ;  and  so  on  towards  his 
big  hill.  Before  he  gets  there  he  will  have  a  skilful 
retreat  planned,  back  to  the  ponds,  in  case  old  Roby 
untangles  his  crisscross,  or  some  young  fool-hound 
blunders  too  near  the  rock  whereon  he  sits,  watching 
the  game. 

If  you  meet  him  now,  face  to  face,  you  will  see  no 
quiet  assumption  of  superiority;  unless  perchance  he 
is  a  young  fox,  that  has  not  learned  what  it  means  to 
be  met  on  a  runway  by  a  man  with  a  gun  when  the 
dogs  are  driving.  With  your  first  slightest  move- 
ment there  is  a  flash  of  yellow  fur,  and  he  has  van- 
ished into  the  thickest  bit  of  underbrush  at  hand. — 
Don't  run;  you  will  not  see  him  again  here.  He 
knows  the  old  roads  and  paths  far  better  than  you 
do,  and  can  reach  his  big  hill  by  any  one  of  a  dozen 
routes  where  you  would  never  dream  of  looking. 
But  if  you  want  another  glimpse  of  him,  take  the 
shortest  cut  to  the  hill.  He  may  take  a  nap,  or  sit 
and  listen  a  while  to  the  dogs,  or  run  round  a  swamp 
before  he  gets  there.  Sit  on  the  wall  in  plain  sight ; 
make  a  post  of  yourself;  keep  still,  and  keep  your 
eyes  open. 


8  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

Once,  in  just  such  a  place,  I  had  a  rare  chance  to 
watch  him.  It  was  on  the  summit  of  a  great  bare 
hill.  Down  in  the  woods  by  a  swamp,  five  or  six 
hounds  were  waking  the  winter  echoes  merrily  on 
a  fresh  trail.  I  was  hoping  for  a  sight  of  Reynard 
when  he  appeared  from  nowhere,  on  a  rock  not  fifty 
yards  away.  There  he  lay,  his  nose  between  his 
paws,  listening  with  quiet  interest  to  the  uproar 
below.  Occasionally  he  raised  his  head  as  some 
young  dog  scurried  near,  yelping  maledictions  upon 
a  perfect  tangle  of  fox  tracks,  none  of  which  went 
anywhere.  Suddenly  he  sat  up  straight,  twisted  his 
head  sideways,  as  a  dog  does  when  he  sees  the  most 
interesting  thing  of  his  life,  dropped  his  tongue  out 
a  bit,  and  looked  intently.  I  looked  too,  and  there, 
just  below,  was  old  Roby,  the  best  foxhound  in  a 
dozen  counties,  creeping  like  a  cat  along  the  top 
rail  of  a  sheep-fence,  now  putting  his  nose  down  to 
the  wood,  now  throwing  his  head  back  for  a  great 
howl  of  exultation.  —  It  was  all  immensely  entertain- 
ing ;  and  nobody  seemed  to  be  enjoying  it  more  than 
the  fox. 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  bits  of  animal  study  is 
to  begin  at  the  very  beginning  of  fox  education,  i.e., 
to  find  a  fox  den,  and  go  there  some  afternoon  in 
early  June,  and  hide  at  a  distance,  where  you  can 
watch  the  entrance  through  your  field-glass.  Every 


Fox -Ways.  C) 

afternoon  the  young  foxes  come  out  to  play  in  the 
sunshine  like  so  many  kittens.  Bright  little  bundles 
of  yellow  fur  they  seem,  full  of  tricks  and  whims, 
with  pointed  faces  that  change  only  from  exclama- 
tion to  interrogation  points,  and  back  again.  For 
hours  at  a  stretch  they  roll  about,  and  chase  tails, 
and  pounce  upon  the  quiet  old  mother  with  fierce 
little  barks.  One  climbs  laboriously  up  the  rock 
behind  the  den,  and  sits  on  his  tail,  gravely  surveying 
the  great  landscape  with  a  comical  little  air  of  impor- 
tance, as  if  he  owned  it  all.  When  called  to  come 
down  he  is  afraid,  and  makes  a  great  to-do  about  it. 
Another  has  been  crouching  for  five  minutes  behind 
a  tuft  of  grass,  watching  like  a  cat  at  a  rat-hole  for 
some  one  to  come  by  and  be  pounced  upon.  Another 
is  worrying  something  on  the  ground,  a  cricket  per- 
haps, or  a  doodle-bug;  and  the  fourth  never  ceases 
to  worry  the  patient  old  mother,  till  she  moves  away 
and  lies  down  by  herself  in  the  shadow  of  a  ground 
cedar. 

As  the  afternoon  wears  away,  and  long  shadows 
come  creeping  up  the  hillside,  the  mother  rises  sud- 
denly and  goes  back  to  the  den ;  the  little  ones  stop 
their  play,  and  gather  about  her.  You  strain  your 
ears  for  the  slightest  sound,  but  hear  nothing;  yet 
there  she  is,  plainly  talking  to  them  ;  and  they  are 
listening.  She  turns  her  head,  and  the  cubs  scamper 


IO  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

into  the  den's  mouth.  A  moment  she  stands  listen- 
ing, looking;  while  just  within  the  dark  entrance 
you  get  glimpses  of  four  pointed  black  noses,  and  a 
cluster  of  bright  little  eyes,  wide  open  for  a  last  look. 
Then  she  trots  away,  planning  her  hunt,  till  she  dis- 
appears down  by  the  brook.  When  she  is  gone,  eyes 
and  noses  draw  back ;  only  a  dark  silent  hole  in  the 
bank  is  left.  You  will  not  see  them  again  —  not 
unless  you  stay  to  watch  by  moonlight  till  mother- 
fox  comes  back,  with  a  fringe  of  field-mice  hanging 
from  her  lips,  or  a  young  turkey  thrown  across  her 
shoulders. 

One  shrewd  thing  frequently  noticed  in  the  con- 
duct of  an  old  fox  with  young  is  that  she  never 
troubles  the  poultry  of  the  farms  nearest  her  den. 
She  will  forage  for  miles  in  every  direction ;  will 
harass  the  chickens  of  distant  farms  till  scarcely  a 
handful  remains  of  those  that  wander  into  the  woods, 
or  sleep  in  the  open  yards ;  yet  she  will  pass  by  and 
through  nearer  farms  without  turning  aside  to  hunt, 
except  for  mice  and  frogs ;  and,  even  when  hungry, 
will  note  a  flock  of  chickens  within  sight  of  her  dens 
and  leave  them  undisturbed.  She  seems  to  know 
perfectly  that  a  few  missing  chickens  will  lead  to  a 
search  ;  that  boys'  eyes  will  speedily  find  her  den, 
and  boys'  hands  dig  eagerly  for  a  litter  of  young 
foxes. 


Fox -Ways.  \  \ 

Last  summer  I  found  a  den,  beautifully  hidden, 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  an  old  farmhouse. 
The  farmer  assured  me  he  had  never  missed  a 
chicken ;  he  had  no  idea  that  there  was  a  fox 
within  miles  of  his  large  flock.  Three  miles  away 
was  another  farmer  who  frequently  sat  up  nights, 
and  set  his  boys  to  watching  afternoons,  to  shoot  a 
fox  that,  early  and  late,  had  taken  nearly  thirty  young 
chickens.  Driven  to  exasperation  at  last,  he  bor- 
rowed a  hound  from  a  hunter;  and  the  dog  ran  the 
trail  straight  to  the  den  I  had  discovered. 

Curiously  enough,  the  cubs,  for  whose  peaceful 
bringing  up  the  mother  so  cunningly  provides,  do 
hot  imitate  her  caution.  They  begin  their  hunting 
by  lying  in  ambush  about  the  nearest  farm ;  the 
first  stray  chicken  they  see  is  game.  Once  they 
begin  to  plunder  in  this  way,  and  feed  full  on  their 
own  hunting,  parental  authority  is  gone;  the  mother 
deserts  the  den  immediately,  leading  the  cubs  far 
away.  But  some  of  them  go  back,  contrary  to  all 
advice,  and  pay  the  penalty.  She  knows  now  that 
sooner  or  later  some  cub  will  be  caught  stealing 
chickens  in  broad  daylight,  and  be  chased  by  dogs. 
The  foolish  youngster  takes  to  earth,  instead  of  trust- 
ing to  his  legs;  so  the  long-concealed  den  is  discov- 
ered and  dug  open  at  last- 

When   an   old  fox,  foraging  for  her  young  some 


12  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

night,  discovers  by  her  keen  nose  that  a  flock  of  hens 
has  been  straying  near  the  woods,  she  goes  next 
day  and  hides  herself  there,  lying  motionless  for 
hours  at  a  stretch  in  a  clump  of  dead  grass  or  berry 
bushes,  till  the  flock  comes  near  enough  for  a  rush. 
Then  she  hurls  herself  among  them,  and  in  the  con- 
fusion seizes  one  by  the  neck,  throws  it  by  a  quick 
twist  across  her  shoulders,  and  is  gone  before  the 
stupid  hens  find  out  what  it  is  all  about. 

But  when  a  fox  finds  an  old  hen  or  turkey  straying 
about  with  a  brood  of  chicks,  then  the  tactics  are 
altogether  different.  Creeping  up  like  a  cat,  the  fox 
watches  an  opportunity  to  seize  a  chick  out  of  sight 
of  the  mother  bird.  That  done,  he  withdraws,  silent 
as  a  shadow,  his  grip  on  the  chick's  neck  preventing 
any  outcry.  Hiding  his  game  at  a  distance,  he  creeps 
back  to  capture  another  in  the  same  way ;  and  so  on 
till  he  has  enough,  or  till  he  is  discovered,  or  some 
half-strangled  chick  finds  breath  enough  for  a  squawk. 
A  hen  or  turkey  knows  the  danger  by  instinct,  and 
hurries  her  brood  into  the  open  at  the  first  suspicion 
that  a  fox  is  watching. 

A  farmer,  whom  I  know  well,  first  told  me  how  a 
fox  manages  to  carry  a  number  of  chicks  at  once. 
He  heard  a  clamor  from  a  hen-turkey  and  her  brood 
one  day,  and  ran  to  a  wood  path  in  time  to  see  a 
vixen  make  off  with  a  turkey  chick  scarcely  larger 


Fox-Ways.  13 

than  a  robin.  Several  were  missing  from  the  brood. 
He  hunted  about,  and  presently  found  five  more  just 
killed.  They  were  beautifully  laid  out,  the  bodies  at 
a  broad  angle,  the  necks  crossing  each  other,  like  the 
corner  of  a  corn-cob  house,  in  such  a  way  that,  by 
gripping  the  necks  at  the  angle,  all  the  chicks  could 
be  carried  at  once,  half  hanging  at  either  side  of  the 
fox's  mouth.  Since  then  I  have  seen  an  old  fox  with 
what  looked  like  a  dozen  or  more  field-mice  carried 
in  this  way ;  only,  of  course,  the  tails  were  crossed 
corn-cob  fashion  instead  of  the  necks. 

The  stealthiness  with  which  a  fox  stalks  his  game 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about  him. 
Stupid  chickens  are  not  the  only  birds  captured. 
Once  I  read  in  the  .snow  the  story  of  his  hunt  after 
a  crow  —  wary  game  to  be  caught  napping  !  The 
tracks  showed  that  quite  a  flock  of  crows  had  been 
walking  about  an  old  field,  bordered  by  pine  and 
birch  thickets.  From  the  rock  where  he  was  sleep- 
ing away  the  afternoon  the  fox  saw  or  heard  them, 
and  crept  down.  How  cautious  he  was  about  it  ! 
Following  the  tracks,  one  could  almost  see  him  steal- 
ing along  from  stone  to  bush,  from  bush  to  grass 
clump,  so  low  that  his  body  pushed  a  deep  trail  in 
the  snow,  till  he  reached  the  cover  of  a  low  pine  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  field.  There  he  crouched  with 
all  four  feet  close  together  under  him.  Then  a  crow 


14  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

came  by  within  ten  feet  of  the  ambush.  The  tracks 
showed  that  the  bird  was  a  bit  suspicious ;  he 
stopped  often  to  look  and  listen.  When  his  head  was 
turned  aside  for  an  instant  the  fox  launched  himself ; 
just  two  jumps,  and  he  had  him.  Quick  as  he  was, 
the  wing  marks  showed  that  the  crow  had  started,  and 
was  pulled  down  out  of  the  air.  Reynard  carried 
him  into  the  densest  thicket  of  scrub  pines  he  could 
find,  and  ate  him  there,  doubtless  to  avoid  the  attacks 
of  the  rest  of  the  flock,  which  followed  him  screaming 
vengeance. 

A  strong  enmity  exists  between  crows  and  foxes. 
Wherever  a  crow  finds  a  fox,  he  sets  up  a  clatter  that 
draws  a  flock  about  him  in  no  time,  in  great  excite- 
ment. They  chase  the  fox  as  long  as  he  is  in  sight, 
cawing  vociferously,  till  he  creeps  into  a  thicket  of 
scrub  pines,  into  which  no  crow  will  ever  venture, 
and  lies  down  till  he  tires  out  their  patience.  In 
hunting,  one  may  frequently  trace  the  exact  course 
of  a  fox  which  the  dogs  are  driving,  by  the  crows 
clamoring  over  him.  Here  in  the  snow  was  a  record 
that  may  help  explain  one  side  of  the  feud. 

From  the  same  white  page  one  may  read  many 
other  stories  of  Reynard's  ways  and  doings.  Indeed 
I  know  of  no  more  interesting  winter  walk  than  an 
afternoon  spent  on  his  last  night's  trail  through  the 
soft  snow.  There  is  always  something  new,  either  in 


Fox-Ways.  15 

the  track  or  the  woods  through  which  it  leads ; 
always  a  fresh  hunting  story;  always  a  disappoint- 
ment or  two,  a  long  cold  wait  for  a  rabbit  that  did  n't 
come,  or  a  miscalculation  over  the  length  of  the  snow 
tunnel  where  a  partridge  burrowed  for  the  night. 
Generally,  if  you  follow  far  enough,  there  is  also  a 
story  of  good  hunting  which  leaves  you  wavering 
between  congratulation  over  a  successful  stalk  after 
nights  of  hungry,  patient  wandering,  and  pity  for  the 
little  tragedy  told  so  vividly  by  converging  trails,  a  few 
red  drops  in  the  snow,  a  bit  of  fur  blown  about  by  the 
wind,  or  a  feather  clinging  listlessly  to  the  underbrush. 
In  such  a  tramp  one  learns  much  of  fox-ways  and  other 
ways  that  can  never  be  learned  elsewhere. 


The  fox  whose  life  has  been  spent  on  the  hillsides 
surrounding  a  New  England  village  seems  to  have 
profited  by  generations  of  experience.  He  is  much 
more  cunning  every  way  than  the  fox  of  the  wilder- 
ness. If,  for  instance,  a  fox  has  been  stealing  your 
chickens,  your  trap  must  be  very  cunningly  set  if  you 
are  to  catch  him.  It  will  not  do  to  set  it  near  the 
chickens ;  no  inducement  will  be  great  enough  to 
bring  him  within  yards  of  it.  It  must  be  set  well 
back  in  the  woods,  near  one  of  his  regular  hunting 
grounds.  Before  that,  however,  you  must  bait  the 


1 6  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

fox  with  choice  bits  scattered  over  a  pile  of  dry 
leaves  or  chaff,  sometimes  for  a  week,  sometimes  for 
a  month,  till  he  comes  regularly.  Then  smoke  your 
trap,  or  scent  it ;  handle  it  only  with  gloves  ;  set  it  in 
the  chaff ;  scatter  bait  as  usual ;  and  you  have  one 
chance  of  getting  him,  while  he  has  still  a  dozen  of 
getting  away.  In  the  wilderness,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  may  be  caught  with  half  the  precaution.  I  know 
a  little  fellow,  whose  home  is  far  back  from  the  settle- 
ments, who  catches  five  or  six  foxes  every  winter  by 
ordinary  wire  snares  set  in  the  rabbit  paths,  where 
foxes  love  to  hunt. 

In  the  wilderness  one  often  finds  tracks  in  the 
snow,  telling  how  a  fox  tried  to  catch  a  partridge 
and  only  succeeded  in  frightening  it  into  a  tree. 
After  watching  a  while  hungrily,  —  one  can  almost 
see  him  licking  his  chops  under  the  tree,  —  he  trots 
off  to  other  hunting  grounds.  If  he  were  an  educated 
fox  he  would  know  better  than  that. 

When  an  old  New  England  fox  in  some  of  his 
nightly  prowlings  discovers  a  flock  of  chickens  roost- 
ing in  the  orchard,  he  generally  gets  one  or  two. 
His  plan  is  to  come  by  moonlight,  or  else  just  at 
dusk,  and,  running  about  under  the  tree,  bark  sharply 
to  attract  the  chickens'  attention.  If  near  the  house, 
he  does  this  by  jumping,  lest  the  dog  or  the  farmer 
hear  his  barking.  Once  they  have  begun  to  flutter 


Fox -Ways.  17 

and  cackle,  as  they  always  do  when  disturbed,  he 
begins  to  circle  the  tree  slowly,  still  jumping  and 
clacking  his  teeth.  The  chickens  crane  their  necks 
down  to  follow  him.  Faster  and  faster  he  goes, 
racing  in  small  circles,  till  some  foolish  fowl  grows 
dizzy  with  twisting  her  head,  or  loses  her  balance  and 
tumbles  down,  only  to  be  snapped  up  and  carried  off 
across  his  shoulders  in  a  twinkling. 

But  there  is  one  way  in  which  fox  of  the  wilderness 
and  fox  of  the  town  are  alike  easily  deceived.  Both 
are  very  fond  of  mice,  and  respond  quickly  to  the 
squeak,  which  can  be  imitated  perfectly  by  drawing 
the 'breath  in  sharply  between  closed  lips.  The  next 
thing,  after  that  is  learned,  is  to  find  a  spot  in  which 
to  try  the  effect. 

Two  or  three  miles  back  from  almost  all  New  Eng- 
land towns  are  certain  old  pastures  and  clearings, 
long  since  run  wild,  in  which  the  young  foxes  love  to 
meet  and  play  on  moonlight  nights,  much  as  rabbits 
do,  though  in  a  less  harum-scarum  way.  When  well 
fed,  and  therefore  in  no  hurry  to  hunt,  the  heart  of  a 
young  fox  turns  naturally  to  such  a  spot,  and  to  fun 
and  capers.  The  playground  may  easily  be  found  by 
following  the  tracks  after  the  first  snowfall.  (The 
knowledge  will  not  profit  you  probably  till  next 
season ;  but  it  is  worth  finding  and  remembering.) 
If  one  goes  to  the  place  on  some  still,  briglit  night  in 


1 8  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

autumn,  and  hides  on  the  edge  of  the  open,  he  stands 
a  good  chance  of  seeing  two  or  three  foxes  playing 
there'.  Only  he  must  himself  be  still  as  the  night ; 
el§e,  should  twenty  foxes  come  that  way,  he  will 
never  see  one. 

It  is  always  a  pretty  scene,  the  quiet  opening  in 
the  woods  flecked  with  soft  gray  shadows  in  the 
moonlight,  the  dark  sentinel  evergreens  keeping 
silent  watch  about  the  place,  the  wild  little  creatures 
playing  about  among  the  junipers,  flitting  through 
light  and  shadow,  jumping  over  each  other  and  tum- 
bling about  in  mimic  warfare,  all  unconscious  of  a 
spectator  as  the  foxes  that  played  there  before  the 
white  man  came,  and  before  the  Indians.  Such 
scenes  do  not  crowd  themselves  upon  one.  He  must 
wait  long,  and  love  the  woods,  and  be  often  disap- 
pointed ;  but  when  they  come  at  last,  they  are  worth 
all  the  love  and  the  watching.  And  when  the  foxes 
are  not  there,  there  is  always  something  else  that  is 
beautiful. — 

Now  squeak  like  a  mouse,  in  the  midst  of  the  play. 
Instantly  the  fox  nearest  you  stands,  with  one  foot  up; 
listening.  Another  squeak,  and  he  makes  three  or 
four  swift  bounds  in  your  direction,  only  to  stand 
listening  again  ;  he  has  n't  quite  located  you.  Care- 
ful now !  don't  hurry ;  the  longer  you  keep  him  wait- 
ing, the  more  certainly  he  is  deceived.  Another 


Fox-Ways.  ig 

squeak;  some  more  swift  jumps  that  bring  him  within 
ten  feet ;  and  now  he  smells  or  sees  you,  sitting  motion- 
less on  your  boulder  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines. 

He  is  n't  surprised ;  at  least  he  pretends  he  is  n't ; 
but  looks  you  over  indifferently,  as  if  he  were  used  to 
finding  people  sitting  on  that  particular  rock.  Then 
he  trots  off  with  an  air  of  having  forgotten  something. 
With  all  his  cunning  he  never  suspects  you  of  being 
the  mouse.  That  little  creature  he  believes  to  be 
hiding  under  the  rock ;  and  to-morrow  night  he  will 
very  likely  take  a  look  there,  or  respond  to  your 
squeak  in  the  same  way. 

It  is  only  early  in  the  season,  generally  before  the 
snow  blows,  that  one  can  see  them  playing ;  and 
it  is  probably  the  young  foxes  that  are  so  eager  for 
this  kind  of  fun.  Later  in  the  season  —  either  because 
the  cubs  have  lost  their  playfulness,  or  because  they 
must  hunt  so  diligently  for  enough  to  eat  that  there 
is  no  time  for  play  —  they  seldom  do  more  than  take 
a  gallop  together,  with  a  playful  jump  or  two,  before 
going  their  separate  ways.  At  all  times,  however, 
they  have  a  strong  tendency  to  fun  and  mischief- 
making.  More  than  once,  in  winter,  I  have  sur- 
prised a  fox  flying  round  after  his  own  bushy  tail  so 
rapidly  that  tail  and  fox  together  looked  like  a  great 
yellow  pin-wheel  on  the  snow. 

When  a  fox  meets  a  toad  or  frog,  and  is  not  hungry, 


2O  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

he  worries  the  poor  thing  for  an  hour  at  a  time ;  and 
when  he  finds  a  turtle  he  turns  the  creature  over  with 
his  paw,  sitting  down  gravely  to  watch  its  awkward 
struggle  to  get  back  onto  its  feet.  At  such  times  he 
has  a  most  humorous  expression,  brows  wrinkled  and 
tongue  out,  as  if  he  were  enjoying  himself  hugely. 

Later  in  the  season  he  would  be  glad  enough  to 
make  a  meal  of  toad  or  turtle.  One  day  last  March 
the  sun  shone  out  bright  and  warm ;  in  the  afternoon 
the  first  frogs  began  to  tune  up,  cr-r-r-runk,  cr-r-runk- 
a-runk-runk,  like  a  flock  of  brant  in  the  distance.  I 
was  watching  them  at  a  marshy  spot  in  the  woods, 
where  they  had  come  out  of  the  mud  by  dozens  into 
a  bit  of  open  water,  when  the  bushes  parted  cau- 
tiously and  the  sharp  nose  of  a  fox  appeared.  The 
hungry  fellow  had  heard  them  from  the  hill  above, 
where  he  was  asleep,  and  had  come  down  to  see  if  he 
could  catch  a  few.  He  was  creeping  out  onto  the  ice 
when  he  smelled  me,  and  trotted  back  into  the  woods. 

Once  I  saw  him  catch  a  frog.  He  crept  down  to 
where  Chigwooltz,  a  fat  green  bullfrog,  was  sunning 
himself  by  a  lily  pad,  and  very  cautiously  stretched 
out  one  paw  under  water.  Then  with  a  quick  fling 
he  tossed  his  game  to  land,  and  was  after  him  like  a 
flash  before  he  could  scramble  back. 

On  the  seacoast  Reynard  depends  largely  on  the 
tides  for  a  living.  An  old  fisherman  assures  me  that 


Fox -Ways.  21 

he  has  seen  him  catching  crabs  there  in  a  very  novel 
way.  Finding  a  quiet  bit  of  water  where  the  crabs 
are  swimming  about,  he  trails  his  brush  over  the  sur- 
face till  one  rises  and  seizes  it  with  his  claw  (a  most 
natural  thing  for  a  crab  to  do),  whereupon  the  fox 
springs  away,  jerking  the  crab  to  land.  Though  a 
fox  ordinarily  is  careful  as  a  cat  about  wetting  his 
tail  or  feet,  I  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  some  day 
for  myself  that  the  fisherman  was  right.  Reynard  is 
very  ingenious,  and  never  lets  his  little  prejudices 
stand  in  the  way  when  he  is  after  a  dinner. 

His  way  of  beguiling  a  duck  is  more  remarkable 
than  his  fishing.  Late  one  afternoon,  while  following 
the  shore  of  a  pond,  I  noticed  a  commotion  among 
some  tame  ducks,  and  stopped  to  see  what  it  was  about. 
They  were  swimming  in  circles,  quacking  and  stretch- 
ing their  wings,  evidently  in  great  excitement.  A  few 
minutes'  watching  convinced  me  that  something  on 
the  shore  excited  them.  Their  heads  were  straight 
up  from  the  water,  looking  fixedly  at  something  that 
I  could  not  see  ;  every  circle  brought  them  nearer 
the  bank.  I  walked  towards  them,  not  very  cau- 
tiously, I  am  sorry  to  say ;  for  the  farmhouse  where 
the  ducks  belonged  was  in  plain  sight,  and  I  was  not 
expecting  anything  unusual.  As  I  glanced  over  the 
bank  something  slipped  out  of  sight  into  the  tall 
grass.  I  followed  the  waving  tops  intently,  and 


22  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

caught  one  sure  glimpse  of  a  fox  as  he  disappeared 
into  the  woods. 

The  thing  puzzled  me  for  years,  though  I  suspected 
some  foxy  trick,  till  a  duck-hunter  explained  to  me 
what  Reynard  was  doing.  He  had  seen  it  tried  suc- 
cessfully once  on  a  flock  of  wild  ducks.  — 

When  a  fox  finds  a  flock  of  ducks  feeding  near 
shore,  he  trots  down  and  begins  to  play  on  the  beach 
in  plain  sight,  watching  the  birds  the  while  out  of  the 
"  tail  o'  his  ee,"  as  a  Scotchman  would  say.  Ducks 
are  full  of  curiosity,  especially  about  unusual  colors 
and  objects  too  small  to  frighten  them  ;  so  the  play- 
ing animal  speedily  excites  a  lively  interest.  They 
stop  feeding,  gather  close  together,  spread,  circle,  come 
together  again,  stretching  their  necks  as  straight  as 
strings  to  look  and  listen. 

Then  the  fox  really  begins  his  performance.  He 
jumps  high  to  snap  at  imaginary  flies;  he  chases  his 
bushy  tail ;  he  rolls  over  and  over  in  clouds  of  flying 
sand ;  he  gallops  up  the  shore,  and  back  like  a  whirl- 
wind ;  he  plays  peekaboo  with  every  bush.  The  fool- 
ish birds  grow  excited ;  they  swim  in  smaller  circles, 
quacking  nervously,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  get 
a  better  look  at  the  strange  performance.  They  are 
long  in  coming,  but  curiosity  always  gets  the  better 
of  them ;  those  in  the  rear  crowd  the  front  rank  for- 
ward. All  the  while  the  show  goes  on,  the  performer 


Fox-Ways.  23 

paying  not  the  slightest  attention  apparently  to  his 
excited  audience  ;  only  he  draws  slowly  back  from  the 
water's  edge,  as  if  to  give  them  room  as  they  crowd 
nearer. 

They  are  on  shore  at  last ;  then,  while  they  are  lost 
in  the  most  astonishing  caper  of  all,  the  fox  dashes 
among  them,  throwing  them  into  the  wildest  confusion. 
His  first  snap  never  fails  to  throw  a  duck  back  onto 
the  sand  with  a  broken  neck;  and  he  has  generally  time 
for  a  second,  often  for  a  third,  before  the  flock  escapes 
into  deep  water.  Then  he  buries  all  his  birds  but 
one,  throws  that  across  his  shoulders,  and  trots  off, 
wagging  his  head,  to  some  quiet  spot  where  he  can 
eat  his  dinner  and  take  a  good  nap  undisturbed. 

When  with  all  his  cunning  Reynard  is  caught  nap- 
ping, he  makes  use  of  another  good  trick  he  knows. 
One  winter  morning  some  years  ago,  my  friend,  the 
old  fox-hunter,  rose  at  daylight  for  a  run  with  the 
dogs  over  the  new-fallen  snow.  Just  before  calling 
his  hounds,  he  went  to  his  hen-house,  some  distance 
away,  to  throw  the  chickens  some  corn  for  the  day. 
As  he  reached  the  roost,  his  steps  making  no  sound 
in  the  snow,  he  noticed  the  trail  of  a  fox  crossing  the 
yard  and  entering  the  coop  through  a  low  opening 
sometimes  used  by  the  chickens.  No  trail  came  out ; 
it  flashed  upon  him  that  the  fox  must  be  inside  at 
that  moment. 


24  Ways  of  Wood  Folk.  *. 

Hardly  had  he  reached  this  conclusion  when  a 
wild  cackle  arose  that  left  no  doubt  about  it.  On 
the  instant  he  whirled  an  empty  box  against  the  open- 
ing, at  the  same  time  pounding  lustily  to  frighten 
the  thief  from  killing  more  chickens.  Reynard  was 
trapped  sure  enough.  The  fox-hunter  listened  at  the 
door,  but  save  for  an  occasional  surprised  cut-aa-cut, 
not  a  sound  was  heard  within. 

Very  cautiously  he  opened  the  door  and  squeezed 
through.  There  lay  a  fine  pullet  stone  dead  ;  just 
beyond  lay  the  fox,  dead  too. 

"  Well,  of  all  things,"  said  the  fox-hunter,  open- 
mouthed,  "  if  he  has  n't  gone  and  climbed  the  roost 
after  that  pullet,  and  then  tumbled  down  and  broken 
his  own  neck  !  " 

Highly  elated  with  this  unusual  beginning  of  his 
hunt,  he  picked  up  the  fox  and  the  pullet  and  laid 
them  down  together  on  the  box  outside,  while  he  fed 
his  chickens. 

When  he  came  out,  a  minute  later,  there  was  the 
box  and  a  feather  or  two,  but  no  fox  and  no  pullet. 
Deep  tracks  led  out  of  the  yard  and  up  over  the  hill 
in  flying  jumps.  Then  it  dawned  upon  our  hunter 
that  Reynard  had  played  the  possum-game  on  him, 
getting  away  with  a  whole  skin  and  a  good  dinner. 

There  was  no  need  to  look  farther  for  a  good  fox 
track.  Soon  the  music  of  the  hounds  went  ringing 


Fox -Ways.  25 

over  the  hill  and  down  the  hollow;  but  though  the 
dogs  ran  true,  and  the  hunter  watched  the  runways 
all  day  with  something  more  than  his  usual  interest, 
he  got  no  glimpse  of  the  wily  old  fox.  Late  at,night 
the  dogs  came  limping  home,  weary  and  footsore,  but 
with  never  a  long  yellow  hair  clinging  to  their  chops 
to  tell  a  story. 

The  fox  saved  his  pullet,  of  course.  Finding  him- 
self pursued,  he  buried  it  hastily,  and  came  back  the 
next  night  undoubtedly  to  get  it. 

Several  times  since  then  I  have  known  of  his  play- 
ing possum  in  the  same  way.  The  little  fellow  whom 
I  mentioned  as  living  near  the  wilderness,  and  snar- 
ing foxes,  once  caught  a  black  fox  —  a  rare,  beautiful 
animal  with  a  very  valuable  skin  —  in  a  trap  which 
he  had  baited  for  weeks  in  a  wild  pasture.  It  was 
the  first  black  fox  he  had  ever  seen,  and,  boylike,  he 
took  it  only  as  a  matter  of  mild  wonder  to  find  the 
beautiful  creature  frozen  stiff,  apparently,  on  his  pile 
of  chaff  with  one  hind  leg  fast  in  the  trap. 

He  carried  the  prize  home,  trap  and  all,  over  his 
shoulder.  At  his  whoop  of  exultation  the  whole  fam- 
ily came  out  to  admire  and  congratulate.  At  last  he 
took  the  trap  from  the  fox's  leg,  and  stretched  him 
out  on  the  doorstep  to  gloat  over  the  treasure  and 
stroke  the  glossy  fur  to  his  heart's  content.  His 
attention  was  taken  away  for  a  moment ;  then  he  had 


26  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

a  dazed  vision  of  a  flying  black  animal  that  seemed 
to  perch  an  instant  on  the  log  fence  and  vanish 
among  the  spruces. 

Poor  Johnnie  !  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  when 
he  told  me  about  it,  three  years  afterwards. 

These  are  but  the  beginning  of  fox-ways.  I  have 
not  spoken  of  his  occasional  tree  climbing ;  nor  of  his 
grasshopper  hunting ;  nor  of  his  planning  to  catch 
three  quails  at  once  when  he  finds  a  whole  covey 
gathered  into  a  dinner-plate  circle,  tails  in,  heads  out, 
asleep  on  the  ground ;  nor  of  some  perfectly  astonish- 
ing things  he  does  when  hard  pressed  by  dogs.  But 
these  are  enough  to  begin  the  study  and  still  leave 
plenty  of  things  to  find  out  for  one's  self.  Reynard  is 
rarely  seen,  even  in  places  where  he  abounds ;  we 
know  almost  nothing  of  his  private  life;  and  there 
are  undoubtedly  many  of  his  most  interesting  ways 
yet  to  be  discovered.  He  has  somehow  acquired  a 
bad  name,  especially  among  farmers ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  there  is  scarcely  a  wild  thing  in  the  woods 
that  better  repays  one  for  the  long  hours  spent  in 
catching  a  glimpse  of  him. 


II.     MERGANSER. 


<^ 


HELLDRAKE,  or  shellbird,  is  the 
name  by  which  this  duck  is  gener- 
ally known,  though  how  he  came  to 
be  called  so  would  be  hard  to  tell. 
Probably  the  name  was  given  by 
gunners,  who  see  him  only  in 
winter  when  hunger  drives  him 
to  eat  mussels  —  but  even  then 
he  likes  mud-snails  much  better. 
The  name  fish-duck,  which  one  hears  occasionally,  is 
much  more  appropriate.  The  long  slender  bill,  with 
its  serrated  edges  fitting  into  each  other  like  the  teeth 
of  a  bear  trap,  just  calculated  to  seize  and  hold  a  slimy 
wriggling  fish,  is  quite  enough  evidence  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  bird's  food,  even  if  one  had  not  seen 
him  fishing  on  the  lakes  and  rivers  which  are  his 
summer  home. 

That  same  bill,  by  the  way,  is  sometimes  a  source 
of  danger.  Once,  on  the  coast,  I  saw  a  shelldrake 
trying  in  vain  to  fly  against  the  wind,  which  flung 

him  rudely  among  some  tall    reeds   near  me.     The 

27 


28  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

next  moment  Don,  my  old  dog,  had  him.  In  a  hungry 
moment  he  had  driven  his  bill  through  both  shells  of 
a  scallop, -which  slipped  or  worked  its  way  up  to  his 
nostrils,  muzzling  the  bird  perfectly  with  a  hard  shell 
ring.  The  poor  fellow  by  desperate  trying  could  open 
his  mouth  barely  wide  enough  to  drink  or  to  swallow 
the  tiniest  morsel.  He  must  have  been  in  this  con- 
dition a  long  time,  for  the  bill  was  half  worn  through, 
and  he  was  so  light  that  the  wind  blew  him  about  like 
a  great  feather  when  he  attempted  to  fly. 

Fortunately  Don  was  a  good  retriever  and  had 
brought  the  duck  in  with  scarcely  a  quill  ruffled ;  so 
I  had  the  satisfaction  of  breaking  his  bands  and  let- 
ting him  go  free  with  a  splendid  rush.  But  the  wind 
was  too  much  for  him  ;  he  dropped  back  into  the 
water  and  went  skittering  down  the  harbor  like  a  lady 
with  too  much  skirt  and  too  big  a  hat  in  boisterous 
weather.  Meanwhile  Don  lay  on  the  sand,  head  up, 
ears  up,  whining  eagerly  for  the  word  to  fetch.  Then 
he  dropped  his  head,  and  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
tried  to  puzzle  it  out  why  a  man  should  go  out  on  a 
freezing  day  in  February,  and  tramp,  and  row,  and 
get  wet  to  find  a  bird,  only  to  let  him  go  after  he  had 
been  fairly  caught. 

Kwaseekho  the  shelldrake  leads  a  double  life.  In 
winter  he  may  be  found  almost  anywhere  along  the 
Massachusetts  coast  and  southward,  where  he  leads  a 


Merganser.  29 

dog's  life  of  it,  notwithstanding  his  gay  appearance. 
An  hundred  guns  are  roaring  at  him  wherever  he 
goes.  From  daylight  to  dark  he  has  never  a  minute 
to  eat  his  bit  of  fish,  or  to  take  a  wink  of  sleep  in 
peace.  He  flies  to  the  ocean,  and  beds  with  his  fel- 
lows on  the  broad  open  shoals  for  safety.  But  the 
east  winds  blow;  and  the  shoals  are  a  yeasty  mass 
of  tumbling  breakers.  They  buffet  him  about;  they 
twist  his  gay  feathers  ;  they  dampen  his  pinions,  spite 
of  his  skill  in  swimming.  Then  he  goes  to  the  creeks 
and  harbors. 

Along  the  shore  a  flock  of  his  own  kind,  apparently, 
are  feeding  in  quiet  water.  Straight  in  he  comes  with 
unsuspecting  soul,  the  morning  light  shining  full  on 
his  white  breast  and  bright  red  feet  as  he  steadies 
himself  to  take  the  water.  But  bang,  bang!  go  the 
guns;  and  splash,  splash!  fall  his  companions;  and 
out  of  a  heap  of  seaweed  come  a  man  and  a  dog; 
and  away  he  goes,  sadly  puzzled  at  the  painted 
things  in  the  water,  to  think  it  all  over  in  hunger 
and  sorrow. 

Then  the  weather  grows  cold,  and  a  freeze-up 
covers  all  his  feeding  grounds.  Under  his  beautiful 
feathers  the  bones  project  to  spoil  the  contour  of  his 
round  plump  body.  He  is  famished  now ;  he  watches 
the  gulls  to  see  what  they  eat.  When  he  finds  out,  he 
forgets  his  caution,  and  roams  about  after  stray  mus- 


30  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

sels  on  the  beach.  In  the  spring  hunger  drives  him 
into  the  ponds  where  food  is  plenty  —  but  such  food  ! 
In  a  week  his  flesh  is  so  strong  that  a  crow  would 
hardly  eat  it.  Altogether,  it  is  small  wonder  that  as 
soon  as  his  instinct  tells  him  the  streams  of  the 
North  are  open  and  the  trout  running  up,  he  is  off 
to  a  land  of  happier  memories. 

In  summer  he  forgets  his  hardships.  His  life  is 
peaceful  as  a  meadow  brook.  His  home  is  the  wilder- 
ness —  on  a  lonely  lake,  it  may  be,  shimmering  under 
the  summer  sun,  or  kissed  into  a  thousand  smiling 
ripples  by  the  south  wind.  Or  perhaps  it  is  a  forest 
river,  winding  on  by  wooded  hills  and  grassy  points 
and  lonely  cedar  swamps.  In  secret  shallow  bays  the 
young  broods  are  plashing  about,  learning  to  swim 
and  dive  and  hide  in  safety.  The  plunge  of  the  fish- 
hawk  comes  up  from  the  pools.  A  noisy  kingfisher 
rattles  about  from  tree  to  stump,  like  a  restless  busy- 
body. The  hum  of  insects  fills  the  air  with  a  drowsy 
murmur.  Now  a  deer  steps  daintily  down  the  point, 
and  looks,  and  listens,  and  drinks.  A  great  moose 
wades  awkwardly  out  to  plunge  his  head  under  and 
pull  away  at  the  lily  roots.  But  the  young  brood 
mind  not  these  harmless  things.  Sometimes  indeed, 
as  the  afternoon  wears  away,  they  turn  their  little 
heads  apprehensively  as  the  alders  crash  and  sway  on 
the  bank  above;  a  low  cluck  from  the  mother  bird 


Merganser.  3 1 

sends  them  all  off  into  the  grass  to  hide.  How 
quickly  they  have  disappeared,  leaving  never  a  trace  ! 
But  it  is  only  a  bear  come  down  from  the  ridge  where 
he  has  been  sleeping,  to  find  a  dead  fish  perchance  for 
his  supper ;  and  the  little  brood  seem  to  laugh  as 
another  low  cluck  brings  them  scurrying  back  from 
their  hiding  places. 

Once,  perhaps,  comes  a  real  fright,  when  all  their 
summer's  practice  is  put  to  the  test.  An  unusual 
noise  is  heard  ;  and  round  the  bend  glides  a  bark 
canoe  with  sound  of  human  voices.  Away  go  the 
brood  together,  the  river  behind  them  foaming  like 
the  wake  of  a  tiny  steamer  as  the  swift-moving  feet 
lift  them  almost  out  of  water.  Visions  of  ocean,  the 
guns,  falling  birds,  and  the  hard  winter  distract  the 
poor  mother.  She  flutters  wildly  about  the  brood, 
now  leading,  now  bravely  facing  the  monster;  now 
pushing  along  some  weak  little  loiterer,  now  flounder- 
ing near  the  canoe  as  if  wounded,  to  attract  attention 
from  the  young.  But  they  double  the  point  at  last, 
and  hide  away  under  the  alders.  The  canoe  glides 
by  and  makes  no  effort  to  find  them.  Silence  is  again 
over  the  forest.  The  little  brood  come  back  to  the 
shallows,  with  mother  bird  fluttering  round  them  to 
count  again  and  again  lest  any  be  missing.  The 
kingfisher  comes  out  of  his  hole  in  the  bank.  The  river 
flows  on  as  before,  and  peace  returns ;  and  over  all  is 


32  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

the  mystic  charm  of  the  wilderness  and  the  quiet  of  a 
summer  day. 

This  is-  the  way  it  all  looks  and  seems  to  me,  sitting 
over  under  the  big  hemlock,  out  of  sight,  and  watch- 
ing the  birds  through  my  field-glass. 

Day  after  day  I  have  attended  such  little  schools, 
unseen  and  unsuspected  by  the  mother  bird.  Some- 
times it  was  the  a-b-c  class,  wee  little  downy  fellows, 
learning  to  hide  on  a  lily  pad,  and  never  getting  a 
reward  of  merit  in  the  shape  of  a  young  trout  till  they 
hid  so  well  that  the  teacher  (somewhat  over-critical,  I 
thought)  was  satisfied.  Sometimes  it  was  the  bacca- 
laureates that  displayed  their  talents  to  the  unbidden 
visitor,  flashing  out  of  sight,  cutting  through  the  water 
like  a  ray  of  light,  striking  a  young  trout  on  the  bottom 
with  the  rapidity  and  certainty  almost  of  the  teacher. 
It  was  marvelous,  the  diving  and  swimming;  and 
mother  bird  looked  on  and  quacked  her  approval  of 
the  young  graduates.  —  That  is  another  peculiarity: 
the  birds  are  dumb  in  winter;  they  find  their  voice 
only  for  the  young. 

While  all  this  careful  training  is  going  on  at  home, 
the  drake  is  off  on  the  lakes  somewhere  with  his  boon 
companions,  having  a  good  time,  and  utterly  neglect- 
ful of  parental  responsibility.  Sometimes  I  have 
found  clubs  of  five  or  six,  gay  fellows  all,  living  by 
themselves  at  one  end  of  a  big  lake  where  the  fish- 


Merganser.  33 

ing  was  good.  All  summer  long  they  roam  and  gad 
about,  free  from  care,  and  happy  as  summer  campers, 
leaving  mother  birds  meanwhile  to  feed  and  educate 
their  offspring.  Once  only  have  I  seen  a  drake  shar- 
ing in  the  responsibilities  of  his  family.  I  watched 
three  days  to  find  the  cause  of  his  devotion ;  but  he 
disappeared  the  third  evening,  and  I  never  saw  him 
again.  Whether  the  drakes  are  lazy  and  run  away, 
or  whether  they  have  the  atrocious  habit  of  many 
male  birds  and  animals  of  destroying  their  young, 
and  so  are  driven  away  by  the  females,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  find  out. 

These  birds  are  very  destructive  on  the  trout 
streams ;  if  a  summer  camper  spare  them,  it  is 
because  of  his  interest  in  the  young,  and  especially 
because  of  the  mother  bird's  devotion.  When  the 
recreant  drake  is  met  with,  however,  he  goes  promptly 
onto  the  bill  of  fare,  with  other  good  things. 

Occasionally  one  overtakes  a  brood  on  a  rapid 
river.  Then  the  poor  birds  are  distressed  indeed. 
At  the  first  glimpse  of  the  canoe  they  are  off,  churn- 
ing the  water  into  foam  in  their  flight.  Not  till  they 
are  out  of  sight  round  the  bend  do  they  hear  the  cluck 
that  tells  them  to  hide.  Some  are  slow  in  finding 
a  hiding  place  on 'the  strange  waters.  The  mother 
bird  hurries  them.  They  are  hunting  in  frantic  haste 
when  round  the  bend  comes  the  swift-gliding  canoe. 


34  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

With  a  note  of  alarm  they  are  all  off  again,  for  she 
will  not  leave  even  the  weakest  alone.  Again  they 
double  the  bend  and  try  to  hide ;  again  the  canoe 
overtakes  them;  and  so  on,  mile  after  mile,  till  a 
stream  or  bogan  flowing  into  the  river  offers  a  road 
to  escape.  Then,  like  a  flash,  the  little  ones  run  in 
under  shelter  of  the  banks,  and  glide  up  stream  noise- 
lessly, while  mother  bird  flutters  on  down  the  river 
just  ahead  of  the  canoe.  Having  lured  it  away  to  a 
safe  distance,  as  she  thinks,  she  takes  wing  and 
returns  to  the  young. 

Their  powers  of  endurance  are  remarkable.  Once, 
on  the  Restigouche,  we  started  a  brood  of  little  ones 
late  in  the  afternoon.  We  were  moving  along  in  a 
good  current,  looking  for  a  camping  ground,  and  had 
little  thought  for  the  birds,  which  could  never  get  far 
enough  ahead  to  hide  securely.  For  five  miles  they 
kept  ahead  of  us,  rushing  out  at  each  successive 
stretch  of  water,  and  fairly  distancing  us  in  a  straight 
run.  When  we  camped  they  were  still  below  us. 
At  dusk  I  was  sitting  motionless  near  the  river 
when  a  slight  movement  over  near  the  opposite  bank 
attracted  me.  There  was  the  mother  bird,  stealing 
along  up  stream  under  the  fringe  of  bushes.  The 
young  followed  in  single  file.  There  was  no  splash- 
ing of  water  now.  Shadows  were  not  more  noiseless. 

Twice  since  then  I  have  seen  them  do  the  same 


Merganser.  25 

thing.  I  have  no  doubt  they  returned  that  evening 
all  the  way  up  to  the  feeding  grounds  where  we  first 
started  them ;  for  like  the  kingfishers  every  bird 
seems  to  have  his  owrn  piece  of  the  stream.  He  never 
fishes  in  his  neighbor's  pools,  nor  will  he  suffer  any 
poaching  in  his  own.  On  the  Restigouche  we  found 
a  brood  every  few  miles ;  on  other  rivers  less  plenti- 
fully stocked  with  trout  they  are  less  numerous.  On 
lakes  there  is  often  a  brood  at  either  end  ;  but  though 
I  have  watched  them  carefully,  I  have  never  seen 
them  cross  to  each  other's  fishing  grounds. 

Once,  up  on  the  Big  Toledi,  I  saw  a  curious  bit 
of  their  education.  I  was  paddling  across  the  lake 
one  day,  when  I  saw  a  shellbird  lead  her  brood  into  a 
little  bay  where  I  knew  the  water  was  shallow ;  and 
immediately  they  began  dipping,  though  very  awk- 
wardly. They  were  evidently  taking  their  first  lessons 
in  diving.  The  next  afternoon  I  was  near  the  same 
place.  I  had  done  fishing  —  or  rather,  frogging  — 
and  had  pushed  the  canoe  into  some  tall  grass  out  of 
sight,  and  was  sitting  there  just  doing  nothing. 

A  musquash  came  by,  and  rubbed  his  nose  against 
the  canoe,  and  nibbled  a  lily  root  before  he  noticed  me. 
A  shoal  of  minnows  were  playing  among  the  grasses 
near  by.  A  dragon-fly  stood  on  his  head  against  a 
reed  —  a  most  difficult  feat,  I  should  think.  He  was 
trying  some  contortion  that  I  could  n't  make  out, 


36  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

when  a  deer  stepped  down  the  bank  and  never  saw 
me.  Doing  nothing  pays  one  under  such  circum- 
stances, if  .only  by  the  glimpses  it  gives  of  animal  life. 
It  is  so  rare  to  see  a  wild  thing  unconscious. 

Then  Kwaseekho  came  into  the  shallow  bay  again 
with  her  brood,  and  immediately  they  began  dipping 
as  before.  I  wondered  how  the  mother  made  them 
dive,  till  I  looked  through  the  field-glass  and  saw  that 
the  little  fellows  occasionally  brought  up  something 
to  eat.  But  there  certainly  were  no  fish  to  be  caught 
in  that  warm,  shallow  water.  An  idea  struck  me, 
and  I  pushed  the  canoe  out  of  the  grass,  sending  the 
brood  across  the  lake  in  wild  confusion.  There  on 
the  black  bottom  were  a  dozen  young  trout,  all  freshly 
caught,  and  all  with  the  air-bladder  punctured  by  the 
mother  bird's  sharp  bill.  She  had  provided  their 
dinner,  but  she  brought  it  to  a  good  place  and  made 
them  dive  to  get  it. 

As  I  paddled  back  to  camp,  I  thought  of  the  way 
the  Indians  taught  their  boys  to  shoot.  They  hung 
their  dinner  from  the  trees,  out  of  reach,  and  made 
them  cut  the  cord  that  held  it,  with  an  arrow.  Did 
the  Indians  originate  this,  I  wonder,  in  their  direct 
way  of  looking  at  things,  almost  as  simple  as  the 
birds'  ?  Or  was  the  idea  whispered  to  some  Indian 
hunter  long  ago,  as  he  watched  Merganser  teach  her 
young  to  dive  ? 


Merganser.  37 

Of  all  the  broods  I  have  met  in  the  wilderness,  only 
one,  I  think,  ever  grew  to  recognize  me  and  my  canoe 
a  bit,  so  as  to  fear  me  less  than  another.  It  was  on  a 
little  lake  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  where  we  lingered 
long  on  our  journey,  influenced  partly  by  the  beauty 
of  the  place,  and  partly  by  the  fact  that  two  or  three 
bears  roamed  about  there,  which  I  sometimes  met  at 
twilight  on  the  lake  shore.  The  brood  were  as  wild 
as  other  broods ;  but  I  met  them  often,  and  they 
sometimes  found  the  canoe  lying  motionless  and 
harmless  near  them,  without  quite  knowing  how  it 
came  there.  So  after  a  few  days  they  looked  at  me 
with  curiosity  and  uneasiness  only,  unless  I  came  too 
near. 

There  were  six  in  the  brood.  Five  were  hardy 
little  fellows  that  made  the  water  boil  behind  them 
as  they  scurried  across  the  lake.  But  the  sixth  was  a 
weakling.  He  had  been  hurt,  by  a  hawk  perhaps,  or 
a  big  trout,  or  a  mink ;  or  he  had  swallowed  a  bone ; 
or  maybe  he  was  just  a  weak  little  fellow  with  no 
accounting  for  it.  Whenever  the  brood  were  startled, 
he  struggled  bravely  a  little  while  to  keep  up;  then 
he  always  fell  behind.  The  mother  would  come  back, 
and  urge,  and  help  him  ;  but  it  was  of  little  use.  He 
was  not  strong  enough  ;  and  the  last  glimpse  I  always 
had  of  them  was  a  foamy  wake  disappearing  round  a 
distant  point,  while  far  in  the  rear  was  a  ripple  where 


38  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

the  little  fellow  still   paddled   away,  doing  his  best 
pathetically. 

One  afternoon  the  canoe  glided  round  a  point  and 
ran  almost  up  to  the  brood  before  they  saw  it,  giving 
them  a  terrible  fright.  Away  they  went  on  the  instant, 


putter,  putter,  piitter,  lifting  themselves  almost  out 
of  water  with  the  swift-moving  feet  and  tiny  wings. 
The  mother  bird  took  wing,  returned  and  crossed 
the  bow  of  the  canoe,  back  and  forth,  with  loud 
quackings.  The  weakling  was  behind  as  usual ;  and 
in  a  sudden  spirit  of  curiosity  or  perversity  —  for 
I  really  had  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  for  the  little 


Merganser.  39 

fellow — I  shot  the  canoe  forward,  almost  up  to  him. 
He  tried  to  dive  ;  got  tangled  in  a  lily  stem  in  his 
fright;  came  up,  flashed  under  again;  and  I  saw  him 
come  up  ten  feet  away  in  some  grass,  where  he  sat 
motionless  and  almost  invisible  amid  the  pads  and 
yellow  stems. 

How  frightened  he  was !  Yet  how  still  he  sat ! 
Whenever  I  took  my  eyes  from  him  a  moment  I 
had  to  hunt  again,  sometimes  two  or  three  minutes, 
before  I  could  see  him  there. 

Meanwhile  the  brood  went  almost  to  the  opposite 
shore  before  they  stopped,  and  the  mother,  satisfied 
at  last  by  my  quietness,  flew  over  and  lit  among  them. 
She  had  not  seen  the  little  one.  Through  the  glass 
I  saw  her  flutter  round  and  round  them  to  be  quite 
sure  they  were  all  there.  Then  she  missed  him.  I 
could  see  it  all  in  her  movements.  She  must  have 
clucked,  I  think,  for  the  young  suddenly  disappeared, 
and  she  came  swimming  rapidly  back  over  the  way 
they  had  come,  looking,  looking  everywhere.  Round 
the  canoe  she  went  at  a  safe  distance,  searching 
among  the  grass  and  lily  pads,  calling  him  softly  to 
come  out.  But  he  was  very  near  the  canoe,  and  very 
much  frightened ;  the  only  effect  of  her  calls  was 
to  make  him  crouch  closer  against  the  grass  stems, 
while  the  bright  little  eyes,  grown  large  with  fear, 
were  fastened  on  me. 


4<3  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

Slowly  I  backed  the  canoe  away  till  it  was  out  of 
sight  around  the  point,  though  I  could  still  see  the 
mother  bird  through  the  bushes.  She  swam  rapidly 
about  where  the  canoe  had  been,  calling  more  loudly ; 
but  the  little  fellow  had  lost  confidence  in  her,  or  was 
too  frightened,  and  refused  to  show  himself.  At  last 
she  discovered  him,  and  with  quacks  and  flutters  that 
looked  to  me  a  bit  hysteric  pulled  him  out  of  his 
hiding  place.  How  she  fussed  over  him !  How  she 
hurried  and  helped  and  praised  and  scolded  him  all 
the  way  over;  and  fluttered  on  ahead,  and  clucked 
the  brood  out  of  their  hiding  places  to  meet  him  ! 
Then,  with  all  her  young  about  her,  she  swept  round 
the  point  into  the  quiet  bay  that  was  their  training 
school. 

And  I,  drifting  slowly  up  the  lake  into  the  sunset 
over  the  glassy  water,  was  thinking  how  human  it  all 
was.  "  Doth  he  not  leave  the  ninety  and  nine  in  the 
wilderness,  and  go  after  that  which  is  lost,  until  he 
find  it?" 


III.     QUEER    WAYS    OF    BR'ER    RABBIT. 

R'ER  RABBIT  is  a  funny  fellow.  No 
wonder  that  Uncle  Remus  makes  him 
the  hero  of  so  many  adventures!  Uncle 
Remus  had  watched  him,  no  doubt,  on 
some  moonlight  night  when  he  gathered 
his  boon  companions  together  for  a  frolic.  In  the 
heart  of  the  woods  it  was,  in  a  little  opening  where 
the  moonlight  came  streaming  in  through  the  pines, 
making  soft  gray  shadows  for  hide-and-seek,  and 
where  no  prowling  fox  ever  dreamed  of  looking. 

With  most  of  us,  I  fear,  the  acquaintance  with 
Bunny  is  too  limited  for  us  to  appreciate  his  frolic- 
some ways  and  his  happy,  fun-loving  disposition. 
The  tame  things  which  we  sometimes  see  about 
country  yards  are  often  stupid,  like  a  playful  kitten 
spoiled  by  too  much  handling ;  and  the  flying  glimpse 
we  sometimes  get  of  a  bundle  of  brown  fur,  scurry- 
ing helter-skelter  through  and  over  the  huckleberry 
bushes,  generally  leaves  us  staring  in  astonishment 
at  the  swaying  leaves  where  it  disappeared,  and 
wondering  curiously  what  it  was  all  about.  It  was 


42  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

only  a  brown  rabbit  that  you  almost  stepped  upon 
in  your  autumn  walk  through  the  woods. 

Look  under  the  crimson  sumach  yonder,  there 
in  the  bit  of  brown  grass,  with  the  purple  asters 
hanging  over,  and  you  will  find  his  form,  where 
he  has  been  sitting  all  the  morning  and  where  he 
watched  you  all  the  way  up  the  hill.  But  you  need 
not  follow;  you  will  not  find  him  again.  He  never 
runs  straight ;  the  swaying  leaves  there  where  he  dis- 
appeared mark  the  beginning  of  his  turn,  whether  to 
right  or  left  you  will  never  know.  Now  he  has  come 
around  his  circle  and  is  near  you  again  —  watching 
you  this  minute,  out  of  his  bit  of  brown  grass.  As 
you  move  slowly  away  in  -the  direction  he  took,  peer- 
ing here  and  there  among  the  bushes,  Bunny  behind 
you  sits  up  straight  in  his  old  form  again,  with  his 
little  paws  held  very  prim,  his  long  ears  pointed 
after  you,  and  his  deep  brown  eyes  shining  like  the 
waters  of  a  hidden  spring  among  the  asters.  And  he 
chuckles  to  himself,  and  thinks  how  he  fooled  you 
that  time,  sure. 

To  see  Br'er  Rabbit  at  his  best,  that  is,  at  his 
own  playful  comical  self,  one  must  turn  hunter,  and 
learn  how  to  sit  still,  and  be  patient.  Only  you 
must  not  hunt  in  the  usual  way ;  not  by  day,  for  then 
Bunny  is  stowed  away  in  his  form  on  the  sunny  slope 
of  a  southern  hillside,  where  one's  eyes  will  never 


Queer  Ways  of  Brer  Rabbit.  43 

find  him ;  not  with  gun  and  dog,  for  then  the  keen 
interest  and  quick  sympathy  needed  to  appreciate 
any  phase  of  animal  life  gives  place  to  the  coarser 
excitement  of  the  hunt ;  and  not  by  going  about  after 
Bunny,  for  your  heavy  footsteps  and  the  rustle  of 
leaves  will  only  send  him  scurrying  away  into  safer 
solitudes.  Find  where  he  loves  to  meet  with  his 
fellows,  in  quiet  little  openings  in  the  woods.  There 
is  no  mistaking  his  playground  when  once  you  have 
found  it.  Go  there  by  moonlight  and,  sitting  still  in 
the  shadow,  let  your  game  find  you,  or  pass  by  with- 
out suspicion ;  for  this  is  the  best  way  to  hunt,  whether 
one  is  after  game  or  only  a  better  knowledge  of  the 
ways  of  bird  and  beast. 

The  very  best  spot  I  ever  found  for  watching 
Bunny's  ways  was  on  the  shore  of  a  lonely  lake  in  the 
heart  of  a  New  Brunswick  forest.  I  hardly  think  that 
he  was  any  different  there,  for  I  have  seen  some  of  his 
pranks  repeated  within  sight  of  a  busy  New  England 
town;  but  he  was  certainly  more  natural.  He  had 
never  seen  a  man  before,  and  he  was  as  curious  about 
it  as  a  blue  jay.  No  dog's  voice  had  ever  wakened 
the  echoes  within  fifty  miles ;  but  every  sound  of  the 
wilderness  he  seemed  to  know  a  thousand  times  better 
than  I.  The  snapping  of  the  smallest  stick  under 
the  stealthy  tread  of  fox  or  wildcat  would  send  him 
scurrying  out  of  sight  in  wild  alarm  ;  yet  I  watched  a 


44  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

dozen  of  them  at  play  one  night  when  a  frightened 
moose  went  crashing  through  the  underbrush  and 
plunged  into  the  lake  near  by,  and  they  did  not  seem 
to  mind  it  in  the  least. 

The  spot  referred  to  was  the  only  camping  ground 
on  the  lake ;  so  Simmo,  my  Indian  guide,  assured 
me ;  and  he  knew  very  well.  I  discovered  afterward 
that  it  was  the  only  cleared  bit  of  land  for  miles 
around ;  and  this  the  rabbits  knew  very  well.  Right 
in  the  midst  of  their  best  playground  I  pitched 
my  tent,  while  Simmo  built  his  lean-to  near  by,  in 
another  little  opening.  We  were  tired  that  night, 
after  a  long  day's  paddle  in  the  sunshine  on  the  river. 
The  after-supper  chat  before  the  camp  fire  —  gener- 
ally the  most  delightful  bit  of  the  whole  day,  and 
prolonged  as  far  as  possible  —  was  short  and  sleepy; 
and  we  left  the  lonely  woods  to  the  bats  and  owls 
and  creeping  things,  and  turned  in  for  the  night. 

I  was  just  asleep  when  I  was  startled  by  a  loud 
thump  twice  repeated,  as  if  a  man  stamped  on  the 
ground,  or,  as  I  thought  at  the  time,  just  like  the 
thump  a  bear  gives  an  old  log  with  his  paw,  to  see  if 
it  is  hollow  and  contains  any  insects.  I  was  wide 
awake  in  a  moment,  sitting  up  straight  to  listen.  A 
few  minutes  passed  by  in  intense  stillness ;  then, 
thump  /  thump  !  thump  f  just  outside  the  tent  among 
the  ferns. 


Queer  Ways  of  Brer  Rabbit.  45 

I  crept  slowly  out;  but  beyond  a  slight  rustle  as 
my  head  appeared  outside  the  tent  I  heard  nothing, 
though  I  waited  several  minutes  and  searched  about 
among  the  underbrush.  But  no  sooner  was  I  back 
in  the  tent  and  quiet  than  there  it  was  again,  and 
repeated  three  or  four  times,  now  here,  now  there, 
within  the  next  ten  minutes.  I  crept  out  again,  with 
no  better  success  than  before. 

This  time,  however,  I  would  find  out  about  that 
mysterious  noise  before  going  back.  It  is  n't  so 
pleasant  to  go  to  sleep  until  one  knows  what  things 
are  prowling  about,  especially  things  that  make  a 
noise  like  that.  A  new  moon  was  shining  down 
into  the  little  clearing,  giving  hardly  enough  light 
to  make  out  the  outlines  of  the  great  evergreens. 
Down  among  the  ferns  things  were  all  black  and  uni- 
form. For  ten  minutes  I  stood  there  in  the  shadow 
of  a  big  spruce  and  waited.  Then  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  sudden  heavy  thump  in  the  bushes  just 
behind  me.  I  was  startled,  and  wheeled  on  the 
instant ;  as  I  did  so,  some  small  animal  scurried 
away  into  the  underbrush. 

For  a  moment  I  was  puzzled.  Then  it  flashed 
upon  me  that  I  was  camped  upon  the  rabbits'  play- 
ground. With  the  thought  came  a  strong  suspicion 
that  Bunny  was  fooling  me. 

Going  back  to  the  fire,  I  raked  the  coals  together 


46  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

and  threw  on  some  fresh  fuel.  Next  I  fastened  a 
large  piece  of  birch  bark  on  two  split  sticks  behind 
the  fireplace ;  then  I  sat  down  on  an  old  log  to  wait. 
The  rude  reflector  did  very  well  as  the  fire  burned  up. 
Out  in  front  the  fern  tops  were  dimly  lighted  to  the 
edge  of  the  clearing.  As  I  watched,  a  dark  form  shot 
suddenly  above  the  ferns  and  dropped  back  again. 
Three  heavy  thumps  followed;  then  the  form  shot  up 
and  down  once  more.  This  time  there  was  no  mis- 
take. In  the  firelight  I  saw  plainly  the  dangle  of 
Br'er  Rabbit's  long  legs,  and  the  flap  of  his  big  ears, 
and  the  quick  flash  of  his  dark  eyes  in  the  reflected 
light,  —  got  an  instantaneous  photograph  of  him,  as 
it  were,  at  the  top  of  his  comical  jump. 

I  sat  there  nearly  an  hour  before  the  why  and  the 
how  of  the  little  joker's  actions  became  quite  clear. 
This  is  what  happens  in  such  a  case.  Bunny  comes 
down  from  the  ridge  for  his  nightly  frolic  in  the  little 
clearing.  While  still  in  the  ferns  the  big  white 
object,  standing  motionless  in  the  middle  of  his  play- 
ground, catches  his  attention ;  and  very  much  sur- 
prised, and  very  much  frightened,  but  still  very 
curious,  he  crouches  down  close  to  wait  and  listen. 
But  the  strange  thing  does  not  move  nor  see  him.  To 
get  a  better  view  he  leaps  up  high  above  the  ferns 
two  or  three  times.  Stili  the  big  thing  remains  quite 
still  and  harmless.  "Now,"  thinks  Bunny,  "I'll 


Ways  of  Brer  Rabbit.  47 

frighten  him,  and  find  out  what  he  is."  Leaping 
high,  he  strikes  the  ground  sharply  two  or  three 
times  with  his  padded  hind  foot;  then  jumps  up 
quickly  again  to  see  the  effect  of  his  scare.  Once 
he  succeeded  very  well,  when  he  crept  up  close 
behind  me,  so  close  that  he  did  n't  have  to  spring  up 
to  see  the  effect.  I  fancy  him  chuckling  to  himself 
as  he  scurried  off  after  my  sudden  start. 

That  was  the  first  time  that  I  ever  heard  Bunny's 
challenge.  It  impressed  me  at  the  time  as  one  of  his 
most  curious  pranks ;  the  sound  was  so  big  and 
heavy  for  such  a  little  fellow.  Since  then  I  have 
heard  it  frequently;  and  now  sometimes  when  I 
stand  at  night  in  the  forest  and  hear  a  sudden  heavy 
thump  in  the  underbrush,  as  if  a  big  moose  were 
striking  the  ground  and  shaking  his  antlers  at  me, 
it  does  n't  startle  me  in  the  least.  It  is  only  Br'er 
Rabbit  trying  to  frighten  me. 

The  next  night  Bunny  played  us  another  trick. 
Before  Simmo  went  to  sleep  he  always  took  off  his 
blue  overalls  and  put  them  under  his  head  for  a 
pillow.  That  was  only  one  of  Simmo's  queer  ways. 
While  he  was  asleep  the  rabbits  came  into  his  little 
commoosie,  dragged  the  overalls  out  from  under  his 
head,  and  nibbled  them  full  of  holes.  Not  content 
with  this,  they  played  with  them  all  night;  pulled 
them  around  the  clearing,  as  threads  here  and  there 


' 


48  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

plainly  showed ;  then  dragged  them  away  into  the 
underbrush  and  left  them. 

Simma's  wrath  when  he  at  last  found  the  precious 
garments  was  comical  to  behold ;  when  he  wore 
them  with  their  new  polka-dot  pattern,  it  was  still 
more  comical.  Why  the  rabbits  did  it  I  could  never 
quite  make  out.  The  overalls  were  very  dirty,  very 
much  stained  with  everything  from  a  clean  trout  to 
tobacco  crumbs ;  and,  as  there  was  nothing  about 
them  for  a  rabbit  to  eat,  we  concluded  that  it  was 
just  one  of  Br'er  Rabbit's  pranks.  That  night  Simmo, 
to  avenge  his  overalls,  set  a  deadfall  supported  by  a 
piece  of  cord,  which  he  had  soaked  in  molasses  and 
salt.  Which  meant  that  Bunny  would  nibble  the  cord 
for  the  salt  that  was  in  it,  and  bring  the  log  down 
hard  on  his  own  back.  So  I  had  to  spring  it,  while 
Simmo  slept,  to  save  the  little  fellow's  life  and  learn 
more  about  him. 

Up  on  the  ridge  above  our  tent  was  a  third  tiny 
clearing,  where  some  trappers  had  once  made  their 
winter  camp.  It  was  there  that  I  watched  the  rabbits 
one  moonlight  night  from  my  seat  on  an  old  log,  just 
within  the  shadow  at  the  edge  of  the  opening.  The 
first  arrival  came  in  with  a  rush.  There  was  a  sudden 
scurry  behind  me,  and  over  the  log  he  came  with  a 
flying  leap  that  landed  him  on  the  smooth  bit  of 
ground  in  the  middle,  where  he  whirled  around  and 


Queer  Ways  of  Brer  Rabbit.  49 

around  with  grotesque  jumps,  like  a  kitten  after  its 
tail.  Only  Br'er  Rabbit's  tail  was  too  short  for  him 
ever  to  catch  it ;  he  seemed  rather  to  be  trying  to  get 
a  good  look  at  it.  Then  he  went  off  helter-skelter  in 
a  headlong  rush  through  the  ferns.  Before  I  knew 
what  had  become  of  him,  over  the  log  he  came  again 
in  a  marvelous  jump,  and  went  tearing  around  the 
clearing  like  a  circus  horse,  varying  his  performance 
now  by  a  high  leap,  now  by  two  or  three  awkward 
hops  on  his  hind  legs,  like  a  dancing  bear.  It  was 
immensely  entertaining. 

The  third  time  around  he  discovered  me  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  his  antics.  He  was  so  surprised  that 
he  fell  down.  In  a  second  he  was  up  again,  sitting 
up  very  straight  on  his  haunches  just  in  front  of  me, 
paws  crossed,  ears  erect,  eyes  shining  in  fear  and 
curiosity.  "  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  was  saying,  as  plainly 
as  ever  rabbit  said  it.  Without  moving  a  muscle  I 
tried  to  tell  him,  and  also  that  he  need  not  be  afraid. 
Perhaps  he  began  to  understand,  for  he  turned  his 
head  on  one  side,  just  as  a  dog  does  when  you  talk  to 
him.  But  he  was  n't  quite  satisfied.  "  I  '11  try  my 
scare  on  him,"  he  thought;  and  thump!  thump! 
thump  f  sounded  his  padded  hind  foot  on  the  soft 
ground.  It  almost  made  me  start  again,  it  sounded 
so  big  in  the  dead  stillness.  This  last  test  quite  con- 
vinced him  that  I  was  harmless,  and,  after  a  moment's 


5<D  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

watching,  away  he  went  in  some  astonishing  jumps 
into  the  forest. 

A  few  -minutes  passed  by  in  quiet  waiting  before 
he  was  back  again,  this  time  with  two  or  three  com- 
panions. I  have  no  doubt  that  he  had  been  watching 
me  all  the  time,  for  I  heard  his  challenge  in  the  brush 
just  behind  my  log.  The  fun  now  began  to  grow 
lively.  Around  and  around  they  went,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  —  the  woods  seemed  full  of  rabbits,  they 
scurried  around  so.  Every  few  minutes  the  number 
increased,  as  some  new  arrival  came  flying  in  and 
gyrated  around  like  a  brown  fur  pinwheel.  They 
leaped  over  everything  in  the  clearing;  they  leaped 
over  each  other  as  if  playing  leap-frog ;  they  vied 
with  each  other  in  the  high  jump.  Sometimes  they 
gathered  together  in  the  middle  of  the  open  space 
and  crept  about  close  to  the  ground,  in  and  out  and 
roundabout,  like  a  game  of  fox  and  geese.  Then 
they  rose  on  their  hind  legs  and  hopped  slowly 
about  in  all  the  dignity  of  a  minuet.  Right  in  the 
midst  of  the  solemn  affair  some  mischievous  fellow 
gave  a  squeak  and  a  big  jump;  and  away  they  all 
went  hurry-skurry,  for  all  the  world  like  a  lot  of  boys 
turned  loose  for  recess.  In  a  minute  they  were 
back  again,  quiet  and  sedate,  and  solemn  as  bull- 
frogs. Were  they  chasing  and  chastising  the  mis- 
chief-maker, or  was  it  only  the  overflow  of  abundant 


§>ueer  Ways  of  Brer  Rabbit.  51 

spirits,  as  the  top  of  a  kettle  blows  off  when  the 
pressure  below  becomes  resistless  ? 

Many  of  the  rabbits  saw  me,  I  am  sure,  for  they 
sometimes  gave  a  high  jump  over  my  foot ;  and  one 
came  close  up  beside  it,  and  sat  up  straight  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  to  look  me  over.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  first  comer,  for  he  did  not  try  his  scare  again. 
Like  most  wild  creatures,  they  have  very  little  fear 
of  an  object  that  remains  motionless  at  their  first 
approach  and  challenge. 

Once  there  was  a  curious  performance  over  across 
the  clearing.  I  could  not  see  it  very  plainly,  but  it 
looked  very  much  like  a  boxing  match.  A  queer 
sound,  put-a-put-a-put-a-put,  first  drew  my  attention 
to  it.  Two  rabbits  were  at  the  edge  of  the  ferns, 
standing  up  on  their  hind  legs,  face  to  face,  and 
apparently  cuffing  each  other  soundly,  while  they 
hopped  slowly  around  and  around  in  a  circle.  I 
could  not  see  the  blows  but  only  the  boxing  attitude, 
and  hear  the  sounds  as  they  landed  on  each  other's 
ribs.  The  other  rabbits  did  not  seem  to  mind  it,  as 
they  would  have  done  had  it  been  a  fight,  but  stopped 
occasionally  to  watch  the  two,  an'd  then  went  on 
with  their  fun-making.  Since  then  I  have  read  of 
tame  hares  that  did  the  same  thing,  but  I  have  never 
seen  it. 

At  another  time  the  rabbits  were  gathered  together 


52  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

in  the  very  midst  of  some  quiet  fun,  when  they  leaped 
aside  suddenly  and  disappeared  among  the  ferns  as  if 
by  magic.  *  The  next  instant  a  dark  shadow  swept 
across  the  opening,  almost  into  my  face,  and  wheeled 
out  of  sight  among  the  evergreens.  It  was  Kookoo- 
skoos,  the  big  brown  owl,  coursing  the  woods  on  his 
nightly  hunt  after  the  very  rabbits  that  were  crouched 
motionless  beneath  him  as  he  passed.  But  how  did 
they  learn,  all  at  once,  of  the  coming  of  an  enemy 
whose  march  is  noiseless  as  the  sweep  of  a  shadow? 
And  did  they  all  hide  so  well  that  he  never  suspected 
that  they  were  about,  or  did  he  see  the  ferns  wave 
as  the  last  one  disappeared,  but  was  afraid  to  come 
back  after  seeing  me?  Perhaps  Br'er  Rabbit  was 
well  repaid  that  time  for  his  confidence. 

They  soon  came  back  again,  as  I  think  they  would 
not  have  done  had  it  been  a  natural  opening.  Had 
it  been  one  of  Nature's  own  sunny  spots,  the  owl 
would  have  swept  back  and  forth  across  it;  for  he 
knows  the  rabbits'  ways  as  well  as  they  know  his. 
But  hawks  and  owls  avoid  a  spot  like  this,  that  men 
have  cleared.  If  they  cross  it  once  in  search  of  prey, 
they  seldom  return.  Wherever  man  camps,  he  leaves 
something  of  himself  behind ;  and  the  fierce  birds 
and  beasts  of  the  woods  fear  it, .and  shun  it.  It 
is  only  the  innocent  things,  singing  birds,  and  fun- 
loving  rabbits,  and  harmless  little  wood-mice  —  shy, 


IV ays  of  Brer  Rabbit.  53 

defenseless  creatures  all  —  that  take  possession  of 
man's  abandoned  quarters,  and  enjoy  his  protection. 
Bunny  knows  this,  I  think ;  and  so  there  is  no  other 
place  in  the  woods  that  he  loves  so  well  as  an  old 
camping  ground. 

The  play  was  soon  over;  for  it  is  only  in  the  early 
part  of  the  evening,  when  Br'er  Rabbit  first  comes 
out  after  sitting  still  in  his  form  all  day,  that  he  gives 
himself  up  to  fun,  like  a  boy  out  of  school.  If  one 
may  judge,  however,  from  the  looks  of  Simmo's  over- 
alls, and  from  the  number  of  times  he  woke  me  by 
scurrying  around  my  tent,  I  suspect  that  he  is  never 
too  serious  and  never  too  busy  for  a  joke.  It  is  a 
way  he  has  of  brightening  the  more  sober  times  of 
getting  his  own  living,  and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  cats  and  owls  and  prowling  foxes. 

Gradually  the  playground  was  deserted,  as  the 
rabbits  slipped  off  one  by  one  to  hunt  their  supper. 
Now  and  then  there  was  a  scamper  among  the  under- 
brush, and  a  high  jump  or  two,  with  which  some 
playful  bunny  enlivened  his  search  for  tender  twigs ; 
and  at  times  one,  more  curious  than  the  rest,  came 
hopping  along  to  sit  erect  a  moment  before  the  old 
log,  and  look  to  see  if  the  strange  animal  were  still 
there.  But  soon  the  old  log  was  vacant  too.  Out 
in  the  swamp  a  disappointed  owl  sat  on  his  lonely 
stub  that  lightning  had  blasted,  and  hooted  that  he 


54  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

was  hungry.  The  moon  looked  down  into  the  little 
clearing  with  its  waving  ferns  and  soft  gray  shadows, 
and  saw  nothing  there  to  suggest  that  it  was  the 
rabbits'  nursery. 

Down  at  the  camp  a  new  surprise  was  awaiting  me. 
Br'er  Rabbit  was  under  the  tent  fly,  tugging  away  at 
the  salt  bag  which  I  had  left  there  carelessly  after 
curing  a  bearskin.  While  he  was  absorbed  in  get- 
ting it  out  from  under  the  rubber  blanket,  I  crept  up 
on  hands  and  knees,  and  stroked  him  once  from  ears 
to  tail.  He  jumped  straight  up  with  a  startled  squeak, 
whirled  in  the  air,  and  came  down  facing  me.  So 
we  remained  for  a  full  moment,  our  faces  scarcely  two 
feet  apart,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  he 
thumped  the  earth  soundly  with  his  left  hind  foot,  to 
show  that  he  was  not  afraid,  and  scurried  under  the 
fly  and  through  the  brakes  in  a  half  circle  to  a  bush 
at  my  heels,  where  he  sat  up  straight  in  the  shadow 
to  watch  me. 

But  I  had  seen  enough  for  one  night.  I  left  a 
generous  pinch  of  salt  where  he  could  find  it  easily, 
and  crept  in  to  sleep,  leaving  him  to  his  own  ample 
devices. 


IV.     A   WILD    DUCK. 

HE  title  will  suggest  to  most  boys  a 
line  across  the  autumn  sky  at  sunset, 
with  a  bit  of  mystery  about  it ;  or  else 
a  dark  triangle  moving  southward, 
high  and  swift,  at  Thanksgiving  time. 
To  a  few,  who  know  well  the  woods 
and  fields  about  their  homes,  it  may  suggest  a  lonely 
little  pond,  with  a  dark  bird  rising  swiftly,  far  out  of 
reach,  leaving  the  ripples  playing  among  the  sedges. 
To  those  accustomed  to  look  sharply  it  will  suggest 
five  or  six  more  birds,  downy  little  fellows,  hiding  safe 
among  roots  and  grasses,  so  still  that  one  seldom 
suspects  their  presence.  But  the  duck,  like  most 
game  birds,  loves  solitude ;  the  details  of  his  life  he 
keeps  very  closely  to  himself ;  and  boys  must  be 
content  with  occasional  glimpses. 

This  is  especially  true  of  the  ,  dusky  duck,  more 
generally  known  by  the  name  black  duck  among 
hunters.  He  is  indeed  a  wild  duck,  so  wild  that 
one  must  study  him  with  a  gun,  and  study  him  long 
before  he  knows  much  about  him.  An  ordinary 

55 


56  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

tramp  with  a  field-glass  and  eyes  wide  open  may 
give  a  rare,  distant  view  of  him  ;  but  only  as  one 
follows  him  as  a  sportsman  winter  after  winter,  meet- 
ing with  much  less  of  success  than  of  discourage- 
ment, does  he  pick  up  many  details  of  his  personal 
life ;  for  wildness  is  born  in  him,  and  no  experience 
with  man  is  needed  to  develop  it.  On  the  lonely 
lakes  in  the  midst  of  a  Canada  forest,  where  he  meets 
man  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  he  is  the  same  as 
when  he  builds  at  the  head  of  some  mill  pond  within 
sight  of  a  busy  New  England  town.  Other  ducks 
may  in  time  be  tamed  and  used  as  decoys ;  but  not 
so  he.  Several  times  I  have  tried  it  with  wing-tipped 
birds;  but  the  result  was  always  the  same.  They 
worked  night  and  day  to  escape,  refusing  all  food 
and  even  water  till  they  broke  through  their  pen,  or 
were  dying  of  hunger,  when  I  let  them  go. 

One  spring  a  farmer,  with  whom  I  sometimes  go 
shooting,  determined  to  try  with  young  birds.  He 
found  a  black  duck's  nest  in  a  dense  swamp  near  a 
salt  creek,  and  hatched  the  eggs  with  some  others 
under  a  tame  duck.  Every  time  he  approached  the 
pen  the  little  things  skulked  away  and  hid  ;  nor  could 
they  be  induced  to  show  themselves,  although  their 
tame  companions  were  feeding  and  running  about, 
quite  contented.  After  two  weeks,  when  he  thought 
them  somewhat  accustomed  to  their  surroundings,  he 


A  Wild  Duck.  57 

let  the  whole  brood  go  down  to  the  shore  just  below 
his  house.  The  moment  they  were  free  the  wild 
birds  scurried  away  into  the  water-grass  out  of  sight, 
and  no  amount  cf  anxious  quacking  on  the  part  of 
the  mother  duck  could  bring  them  back  into  cap- 
tivity. He  never  saw  them  again. 

This  habit  which  the  young  birds  have  of  skulking 
away  out  of  sight  is  a  measure  of  protection  that  they 
constantly  practise.  A  brood  may  be  seen  on  almost 
any  secluded  pond  or  lake  in  New  England,  where 
the  birds  come  in  the  early  spring  to  build  their 
nests.  Watching  from  some  hidden  spot  on  the 
shore,  one  sees  them  diving  and  swimming  about, 
hunting  for  food  everywhere  in  the  greatest  freedom. 
The  next  moment  they  scatter  and  disappear  so  sud- 
denly that  one  almost  rubs  his  eyes  to  make  sure  that 
the  birds  are  really  gone.  If  he  is  near  enough,  which 
is  not  likely  unless  he  is  very  careful,  he  has  heard  a 
low  cluck  from  the  old  bird,  which  now  sits  with  neck 
standing  straight  up  out  of  the  water,  so  still  as  to  be 
easily  mistaken  for  one  of  the  old  stumps  or  bogs 
among  which  they  are  feeding.  She  is  looking  about 
to  see  if  the  ducklings  are  all  well  hidden.  After  a 
moment  there  is  another  cluck,  very  much  like  the 
other,  and  downy  little  fellows  come  bobbing  out  of 
the  grass,  or  from  close  beside  the  stumps  where  you 
looked  a  moment  before  and  saw  nothing.  This  is 


58  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

repeated  at  frequent  intervals,  the  object  being,  appar- 
ently, to  accustom  the  young  birds  to  hide  instantly 
when  danger  approaches. 

So  watchful  is  the  old  bird,  however,  that  trouble 
rarely  threatens  without  her  knowledge.  When  the 
young  are  well  hidden  at  the  first  sign  of  the  enemy, 
she  takes  wing  and  leaves  them,  returning  when  dan- 
ger is  over  to  find  them  still  crouching  motionless  in 
their  hiding  places.  When  surprised  she  acts  like 
other  game  birds,  —  flutters  along  with  a  great  splash- 
ing, trailing  one  wing  as  if  wounded,  till  she  has  led 
you  away  from  the  young,  or  occupied  your  attention 
long  enough  for  them  to  be  safely  hidden ;  then  she 
takes  wing  and  leaves  you. 

The  habit  of  hiding  becomes  so  fixed  with  the 
young  birds  that  they  trust  to  it  long  after  the  wings 
have  grown  and  they  are  able  to  escape  by  flight. 
Sometimes  in  the  early  autumn  I  have  run  the  bow  of 
my  canoe  almost  over  a  full-grown  bird,  lying  hidden 
in  a  clump  of  grass,  before  he  sprang  into  the  air  and 
away.  A  month  later,  in  the  same  place,  the  canoe 
could  hardly  approach  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
without  his  taking  alarm. 

Once  they  have  learned  to  trust  their  wings,  they 
give  up  hiding  for  swift  flight.  But  they  never  forget 
their  early  training,  and  when  wounded  hide  with  a 
cunning  that  is  remarkable.  Unless  one  has  a  good 


A  Wild  Duck,  59 

dog  it  is  almost  useless  to  look  for  a  wounded  duck, 
if  there  is  any  cover  to  be  reached.  Hiding  under  a 
bank,  crawling  into  a  muskrat  hole,  worming  a  way 
under  a  bunch  of  dead  grass  or  pile  of  leaves,  swim- 
ming around  and  around  a  clump  of  bushes  just  out 
of  sight  of  his  pursuer,  diving  and  coming  up  behind 
a  tuft  of  grass,  —  these  are  some  of  the  ways  by  which 
I  have  known  a  black  duck  try  to  escape.  Twice 
I  have  heard  from  old  hunters  of  their  finding  a  bird 
clinging  to  a  bunch  of  grass  under  water,  though  I 
have  never  seen  it.  Once,  from  a  blind,  I  saw  a  black 
duck  swim  ashore  and  disappear  into  a  small  clump 
of  berry  bushes.  Karl,  who  was  with  me,  ran  over 
to  get  him,  but  after  a  half-hour's  search  gave  it  up. 
Then  I  tried,  and  gave  it  up  also.  An  hour  later 
we  saw  the  bird  come  out  of  the  very  place  where 
we  had  been  searching,  and  enter  the  water.  Karl 
ran  out,  shouting,  and  the  bird  hid  in  the  bushes 
again.  Again  we  hunted  the  clump  over  and  over, 
but  no  duck  could  be  seen.  We  were  turning  away 
a  second  time  when  Karl  cried  :  "  Look  !  "  —  and  there, 
in  plain  sight,  by  the  very  white  stone  where  I  had 
seen  him  disappear,  was  the  duck,  or  rather  the  red 
leg  of  a  duck,  sticking  out  of  a  tangle  of  black  roots. 

With  the  first  sharp  frost  that  threatens  to  ice  over 
the  ponds  in  which  they  have  passed  the  summer,  the 
inland  birds  betake  themselves  to  the  seacoast,  where 


60  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

there  is  more  or  less  migration  all  winter.  The  great 
body  of  ducks  moves  slowly  southward  as. the  winter 
grows  severe;  but  if  food  is  plenty  they  winter  all 
along  the  coast.  It  is  then  that  they  may  be  studied 
to  the  best  advantage. 

During  the  daytime  they  are  stowed  away  in  quiet 
little  ponds  and  hiding  places,  or  resting  in  large 
flocks  on  the  shoals  well  out  of  reach  of  land  and  dan- 
ger. When  possible,  they  choose  the  former,  because 
it  gives  them  an  abundance  of  fresh  water,  which  is  a 
daily  necessity ;  and  because,  unlike  the  coots  which 
are  often  found  in  great  numbers  on  the  same  shoals, 
they  dislike  tossing  about  on  the  waves  for  any  length 
of  time.  But  late  in  the  autumn  they  desert  the  ponds 
and  are  seldom  seen  there  again  until  spring,  even 
though  the  ponds  are  open.  They  are  very  shy  about 
being  frozen  in  or  getting  ice  on  their  feathers,  and 
prefer  to  get  their  fresh  water  at  the  mouths  of  creeks 
and  springs. 

With  all  their  caution,  —  and  they  are  very  good 
weather  prophets,  knowing  the  times  of  tides  and 
the  approach  of  storms,  as  well  as  the  days  when 
fresh  water  freezes,  —  they  sometimes  get  caught. 
Once  I  found  a  flock  of  five  in  great  distress,  frozen 
into  the  thin  ice  while  sleeping,  no  doub*t,  with  heads 
tucked  under  their  wings.  At  another  time  I  found 
a  single  bird  floundering  about  with  a  big  lump  of 


A  Wild  Duck.  6 1 

ice  and  mud  attached  to  his  tail.  He  had  probably 
found  the  insects  plentiful  in  some  bit  of  soft  mud 
at  low  tide,  and  stayed  there  too  long  with  the  ther- 
mometer at  zero. 

Night  is  their  feeding  time  ;  on  the  seacoast  they  fly 
in  to  the  feeding  grounds  just  at  dusk.  Fog  bewil- 
ders them,  and  no  bird  likes  to  fly  in  rain,  because 
it  makes  the  feathers  heavy;  so  on  foggy  or  rainy 
afternoons  they  come  in  early,  or  not  at  all.  The 
favorite  feeding  ground  is  a  salt  marsh,  with  springs 
and  creeks  of  brackish  water.  Seeds,  roots,  tender 
grasses,  and  snails  and  insects  in  the  mud  left  by 
the  low  tide  are  their  usual  winter  food.  When 
these  grow  scarce  they  betake  themselves  to  the  mus- 
sel beds  with  the  coots  ;  their  flesh  in  consequence 
becomes  strong  and  fishy. 

When  the  first  birds  come  in  to  the  feeding  grounds 
before  dark,  they  do  it  with  the  greatest  caution,  ex- 
amining not  only  the  little  pond  or  creek,  but  the 
whole  neighborhood  before  lighting.  The  birds  that 
follow  trust  to  the  inspection  of  these  first  comers, 
and  generally  fly  straight  in.  For  this  reason  it  is 
well  for  one  who  attempts  to  see  them  at  this  time 
to  have  live  ^decoys  and,  if  possible,  to  have  his  blind 
built  several  days  in  advance,  in  order  that  the  birds 
which  may  have  been  feeding  in  the  place  shall  see 
no  unusual  object  when  they  come  in.  If  the  blind 


62  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

be  newly  built,  only  the  stranger  birds  will  fly  straight 
in  to  his  decoys.  Those  that  have  been  there  before 
will  either  turn  away  in  alarm,  or  else  examine  the 
blind  very  cautiously  on  all  sides.  If  you  know  now 
how  to  wait  and  sit  perfectly  still,  the  birds  will  at 
last  fly  directly  over  the  stand  to  look  in.  That  is 
your  only  chance ;  and  you  must  take  it  quickly  if 
you  expect  to  eat  duck  for  dinner. 

By  moonlight  one  may  sit  on  the  bank  in  plain 
sight  of  his  decoys,  and  watch  the  wild  birds  as  long 
as  he  will.  It  is  necessary  only  to  sit  perfectly  still. 
But  this  is  unsatisfactory ;  you  can  never  see  just 
what  they  are  doing.  Once  I  had  thirty  or  forty  close 
about  me  in  this  way.  A  sudden  turn  of  my  head, 
when  a  bat  struck  my  cheek,  sent  them  all  off  in  a 
panic  to  the  open  ocean. 

A  curious  thing  frequently  noticed  about  these  birds 
as  they  come  in  at  night  is  their  power  to  make  their 
wings  noisy  or  almost  silent  at  will.  Sometimes  the 
rustle  is  so  slight  that,  unless  the  air  is  perfectly  still, 
it  is  scarcely  audible;  at  other  times  it  is  a  strong 
wish-wish  that  can  be  heard  two  hundred  yards  away. 
The  only  theory  I  can  suggest  is  that  it  is  done 
as  a  kind  of  signal.  In  the  daytime  and  on  bright 
evenings  one  seldom  hears  it;  on  dark  nights  it  is 
very  frequent,  and  is  always  answered  by  the  quack- 
ing of  birds  already  on  the  feeding  grounds,  probably 


A  Wild  Duck.  63 

to  guide  the  incomers.  How  they  do  it  is  uncertain ; 
it  is  probably  in  some  such  way  as  the  night-hawk 
makes  his  curious  booming  sound,  —  not  by  means 
of  his  open  mouth,  as  is  generally  supposed,  but  by 
slightly  turning  the  wing  quills  so  that  the  air  sets 
them  vibrating.  One  can  test  this,  if  he  will,  by 
blowing  on  any  stiff  feather. 

On  stormy  days  the  birds,  instead  of  resting  on  the 
shoals,  light  near  some  lonely  part  of  the  beach  and, 
after  watching  carefully  for  an  hour  or  two,  to  be 
sure  that  no  danger  is  near,  swim  ashore  and  collect 
in  great  bunches  in  some  sheltered  spot  under  a 
bank.  It  is  indeed  a  tempting  sight  to  see  per- 
haps a  hundred  of  the  splendid  birds  gathered  close 
together  on  the  shore,  the  greater  part  with  heads 
tucked  under  their  wings,  fast  asleep ;  but  if  you  are 
to  surprise  them,  you  must  turn  snake  and  crawl, 
and  learn  patience.  Scattered  along  the  beach  on 
either  side  are  single  birds  or  small  bunches  evi- 
dently acting  as  sentinels.  The  crows  and  gulls  are 
flying  continually  along  the  tide  line  after  food  ;  and 
invariably  as  they  pass  over  one  of  these  bunches  of 
ducks  they  rise  in  the  air  to  look  around  over  all 
the  bank.  You  must  be  well  hidden  to  escape  those 
bright  eyes.  The  ducks  understand  crow  and  gull 
talk  perfectly,  and  trust  largely  to  these  friendly  sen- 
•tinels.  The  gulls  scream  and  the  crows  caw  all  day 


64  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

long,  and  not  a  duck  takes  his  head  from  under 
his  wing ;  but  the  instant  either  crow  or  gull  utters 
his  danger  note  every  duck  is  in  the  air  and  headed 
straight  off  shore. 

The  constant  watchfulness  of  black  ducks  is  per- 
haps the  most  remarkable  thing  about  them.  When 
feeding  at  night  in  some  lonely  marsh,  or  hidden  away 
by  day  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  swamps,  they  never 
for  a  moment  seem  to  lay  aside  their  alertness,  nor 
trust  to  their  hiding  places  alone  for  protection.  Even 
when  lying  fast  asleep  among  the  grasses  with  heads 
tucked  under  their  wings,  there  is  a  nervous  vigilance 
in  their  very  attitudes  which  suggests  a  sense  of  dan- 
ger. Generally  one  has  to  content  himself  with  study- 
ing them  through  a  glass ;  but  once  I  had  a  very  good 
opportunity  of  watching  them  close  at  hand,  of  out- 
witting them,  as  it  were,  at  their  own  game  of  hide- 
and-seek.  It  was  in  a  grassy  little  pond,  shut  in  by 
high  hills,  on  the  open  moors  of  Nantucket.  The 
pond  was  in  the  middle  of  a  plain,  perhaps  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  nearest  hill.  No  tree  or  rock  or  bush 
offered  any  concealment  to  an  enemy;  the  ducks 
could  sleep  there  as  sure  of  detecting  the  approach 
of  danger  as  if  on  the  open  ocean. 

One  autumn  day  I  passed  the  place  and,  looking 
cautiously  over  the  top  of  a  hill,  saw  a  single  black 
duck  swim  out  of  the  water-grass  at  the  edge  of  the 


A  Wild  Duck.  65 

pond.  The  fresh  breeze  in  my  face  induced  me  to 
try  to  creep  down  close  to  the  edge  of  the  pond,  to 
see  if  it  were  possible  to  surprise  birds  there,  should 
I  find  any  on  my  next  hunting  trip.  Just  below  me, 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  was  a  swampy  run  leading 
toward  the  pond,  with  grass  nearly  a  foot  high  grow- 
ing along  its  edge.  I  must  reach  that  if  possible. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  watching,  the  duck  went 
into  the  grass  again,  and  I  started  to  creep  down  the 
hill,  keeping  my  eyes  intently  on  the  pond.  Halfway 
down,  another  duck  appeared,  and  I  dropped  flat  on 
the  hillside  in  plain  sight.  Of  course  the  duck  noticed 
the  unusual  object.  There  was  a  commotion  in  the 
grass;  heads  came  up  here  and  there.  The  next  mo- 
ment, to  my  great  astonishment,  fully  fifty  black  ducks 
were  swimming  about  in  the  greatest  uneasiness. 

I  lay  very  still  and  watched.  Five  minutes  passed; 
then  quite  suddenly  all  motion  ceased  in  the  pond; 
every  duck  sat  with  neck  standing  straight  up  from 
the  water,  looking  directly  at  me.  So  still  were  they 
that  one  could  easily  have  mistaken  them  for  stumps 
or  peat  bogs.  After  a  few  minutes  of  this  kind  of 
watching  they  seemed  satisfied,  and  glided  back,  a 
few  at  a  time,  into  the  grass. 

When  all  were  gone  I  rolled  down  the  hill  and 
gained  the  run,  getting  soaking  wet  as  I  splashed  into 
it.  Then  it  was  easier  to  advance  without  being  dis- 


66  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

covered  ;  for  whenever  a  duck  came  out  to  look  round 
—  which  happened  almost  every  minute  at  first — I 
could  drop  into  the  grass  and  be  out  of  sight. 

In  half'  an  hour  I  had  gained  the  edge  of  a  low 
bank,  well  covered  by  coarse  water-grass.  Carefully 
pushing  this  aside,  I  looked  through,  and  almost  held 
my  breath,  they  were  so  near.  Just  below  me,  within 
six  feet,  was  a  big  drake,  with  head  drawn  down  so 
close  to  his  body  that  I  wondered  what  he  had  done 
with  his  neck.  His  eyes  were  closed;  he  was  fast 
asleep.  In  front  of  him  were  eight  or  ten  more  ducks 
close  together,  all  with  heads  under  their  wings.  Scat- 
tered about  in  the  grass  everywhere  were  small  groups, 
sleeping,  or  pluming  their  glossy  dark  feathers. 

Beside  the  pleasure  of  watching  them,  the  first  black 
ducks  that  I  had  ever  seen  unconscious,  there  was  the 
satisfaction  of  thinking  how  completely  they  had  been 
outwitted  at  their  own  game  of  sharp  watching.  How 
they  would  have  jumped  had  they  only  known  what 
was  lying  there  in  the  grass  so  near  their  hiding  place  ! 
At  first,  every  time  I  saw  a  pair  of  little  black  eyes 
wink,  or  a  head  come  from  under  a  wing,  I  felt  myself 
shrinking  close  together  in  the  thought  that  I  was 
discovered ;  but  that  wore  off  after  a  time,  when  I 
found  that  the  eyes  winked  rather  sleepily,  and  the 
necks  were  taken  out  just  to  stretch  them,  much  as 
one  would  take  a  comfortable  yawn. 


A  Wild  Duck. 


67 


Once  I  was  caught  squarely,  but  the  grass  and 
my  being  so  near  saved  me.  I  had  raised  my  head 
and  lay  with  chin  in  my  hands,  deeply  interested  in 
watching  a  young  duck  making  a  most  elaborate 
toilet,  when  from  the  other  side  an  old  bird  shot 


suddenly  into  the  open  water  and  saw  me  as  I  dropped 
out  of  sight.  There  was  a  low,  sharp  quack  which 
brought  every  duck  out  of  his  hiding,  wide  awake  on 
the  instant.  At  first  they  all  bunched  together  at  the 
farther  side,  looking  straight  at  the  bank  where  I 
lay.  Probably  they  saw  my  feet,  which  were  outside 
the  covert  as  I  lay  full  length.  Then  they  drew 
gradually  nearer  till  they  were  again  within  the  fringe 


68  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

of  water-grass.  Some  of  them  sat  quite  up  on  their 
tails  by  a  vigorous  use  of  their  wings,  and  stretched 
their  necks  to  look  over  the  low  bank.  Just  keeping 
still  saved  me.  In  five  minutes  they  were  quiet  again  ; 
even  the  young  duck  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her 
vanity  and  gone  to  sleep  with  the  others. 

Two  or  three  hours  I  lay  thus  and  watched  them 
through  the  grass,  spying  very  rudely,  no  doubt,  into 
the  seclusion  of  their  home  life.  As  the  long  shadow 
of  the  western  hill  stretched  across  the  pool  till  it 
darkened  the  eastern  bank,  the  ducks  awoke  one  by 
one  from  their  nap,  and  began  to  stir  about  in  prepa- 
ration for  departure.  Soon  they  were  collected  at  the 
center  of  the  open  water,  where  they  sat  for  a  moment 
very  still,  heads  up,  and  ready.  If  there  was  any  sig- 
nal given  I  did  not  hear  it.  At  the  same  moment 
each  pair  of  wings  struck  the  water  with  a  sharp 
splash,  and  they  shot  straight  up  in  that  remarkable 
way  of  theirs,  as  if  thrown  by  a  strong  spring.  An 
instant  they  seemed  to  hang  motionless  in  the  air 
high  above  the  water,  then  they  turned  and  disap- 
peared swiftly  over  the  eastern  hill  toward  the 
marshes. 


V.     AN    ORIOLE'S    NEST. 

OW  suggestive  it  is,  swinging  there 
through  sunlight  and  shadow  from  the 
long  drooping  tips  of  the  old  elm 
boughs  !  And  what  a  delightful  cradle 
for  the  young  orioles,  swayed  all  day 
long  by  every  breath  of  the  summer  breeze, 
peeping  through  chinks  as  the  world  sweeps 
by,  watching  with  bright  eyes  the  boy  below 
who  looks  up  in  vain,  or  the  mountain  of  hay  that 
brushes  them  in  passing,  and  whistling  cheerily,  blow 
high  or  low,  with  never  a  fear  of  falling  !  The  mother 
bird  must  feel  very  comfortable  about  it  as  she  goes 
off  caterpillar  hunting,  for  no  bird  enemy  can  trouble 
the  little  ones  while  she  is  gone.  The  black  snake, 
that  horror  of  all  low-nesting  birds,  will  never  climb 
so  high.  The  red  squirrel  —  little  wretch  that  he  is, 
to  eat  young  birds  when  he  has  still  a  bushel  of  corn 
and  nuts  in  his  old  wall  —  cannot  find  a  footing  on 
those  delicate  branches.  Neither  can  the  crow  find 
a  resting  place  from  which  to  steal  the  young;  and 
the  hawk's  legs  are  not  long  enough  to  reach  down 

69 


JO  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

and  grasp  them,  should  he  perchance  venture  near 
the  house  and  hover  an  instant  over  the  nest. 

Besides  all  this,  the  oriole  is  a  neighborly  little 
body ;  and  that  helps  her.  Though  the  young  are 
kept  from  harm  anywhere  by  the  cunning  instinct 
which  builds  a  hanging  nest,  she  still  prefers  to  build 
near  the  house,  where  hawks  and  crows  and  owls 
rarely  come.  She  knows  her  friends  and  takes  advan- 
tage of  their  protection,  returning  year  after  year 
to  the  same  old  elm,  and,  like  a  thrifty  little  house- 
wife, carefully  saving  and  sorting  the  good  threads  of 
her  storm-wrecked  old  house  to  be  used  in  building 
the  new. 

Of  late  years,  however,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that 
the  pretty  nests  on  the  secluded  streets  of  New  Eng- 
land towns  are  growing  scarcer.  The  orioles  are 
peace-loving  birds,  and  dislike  the  society  of  those 
noisy,  pugnacious  little  rascals,  the  English  sparrows, 
which  have  of  late  taken  possession  of  our  streets. 
Often  now  I  find  the  nests  far  away  from  any  house, 
on  lonely  roads  where  a  few  years  ago  they  were 
rarely  seen.  Sometimes  also  a  solitary  farmhouse, 
too  far  from  the  town  to  be  much  visited  by  spar- 
rows, has  two  or  three  nests  swinging  about  it  in 
its  old  elms,  where  formerly  there  was  but  one. 

It  is  an  interesting  evidence  of  the  bird's  keen 
instinct  that  where  nests  are  built  on  lonely  roads 


An   Orioles  Nest.  71 

and  away  from  houses  they  are  noticeably  deeper,  and 
so  better  protected  from  bird  enemies.  The  same 
thing  is  sometimes  noticed  of  nests  built  in  maple  or 
apple  trees,  which  are  without  the  protection  of  droop- 
ing branches,  upon  which  birds  of  prey  can  find  no 
footing.  Some  wise  birds  secure  the  same  protection 
by  simply  contracting  the  neck  of  the  nest,  instead  of 
building  a  deep  one.  Young  birds  building  their  first 
nests  seem  afraid  to  trust  in  the  strength  of  their  own 
weaving.  Their  nests  are  invariably  shallow,  and  so 
suffer  most  from  birds  of  prey. 

In  the  choice  of  building  material  the  birds  are 
very  careful.  They  know  well  that  no  branch  sup- 
ports the  nest  from  beneath ;  that  the  safety  of  the 
young  orioles  depends  on  good,  strong  material  well 
woven  together.  In  some  wise  way  they  seem  to 
know  at  a  glance  whether  a  thread  is  strong  enough 
to  be  trusted ;  but  sometimes,  in  selecting  the  first 
threads  that  are  to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  the  nest, 
they  are  unwilling  to  trust  to  appearances.  At  such 
times  a  pair  of  birds  may  be  seen  holding  a  little  tug- 
of-war,  with  feet  braced,  shaking  and  pulling  the 
thread  like  a  pair  of  terriers,  till  it  is  well  tested. 

It  is  in  gathering  and  testing  the  materials  for  a 
nest  that  the  orioles  display  no  little  ingenuity.  One 
day,  a  few  years  ago,  I  was  lying  under  some  shrubs, 
watching  a  pair  of  the  birds  that  were  building  close 


72  Ways  of  Wood  folk. 

to  the  house.  It  was  a  typical  nest-making  day,  the 
sun  pouring  his  bright  rays  through  delicate  green 
leaves  and  a  glory  of.  white  apple  blossoms,  the  air 
filled  with  warmth  and  fragrance,  birds  and  bees  busy 
everywhere.  Orioles  seem  always  happy ;  to-day  they 
quite  overflowed  in  the  midst  of  all  the  brightness, 
though  materials  were  scarce  and  they  must  needs  be 
diligent. 

The  female  was  very  industrious,  never  returning 
to  the  nest  without  some  contribution,  while  the  male 
frolicked  about  the  trees  in  his  brilliant  orange  and 
black,  whistling  his  warm  rich  notes,  and  seeming 
like  a  dash  of  southern  sunshine  amidst  the  blossoms. 
Sometimes  he  stopped  in  his  frolic  to  find  a  bit  of 
string,  over  which  he  raised  an  Impromptu  jubilate, 
or  to  fly  with  his  mate  to  the  nest,  uttering  that  soft 
rich  twitter  of  his  in  a  mixture  of  blarney  and  con- 
gratulation whenever  she  found  some  particularly 
choice  material.  But  his  chief  part  seemed  to  be  to 
furnish  the  celebration,  while  she  took  care  of  the 
nest-making. 

Out  in  front  of  me,  under  the  lee  of  the  old  wall 
whither  some  line-stripping  gale  had  blown  it,  was 
a  torn  fragment  of  cloth  with  loose  threads  showing 
everywhere.  I  was  wondering  why  the  birds  did  not 
utilize  it,  when  the  male,  in  one  of  his  lively  flights, 
discovered  it  and  flew  down.  First  he  hopped  all 


An   Oriole  s  Nest.  73 

around  it ;  next  he  tried  some  threads ;  but,  as  the 
cloth  was  lying  loose  on  the  grass,  the  whole  piece 
came  whenever  he  pulled.  For  a  few  moments  he 
worked  diligently,  trying  a  pull  on  each  side  in  suc- 
cession. Once  he  tumbled  end  over  end  in  a  comical 
scramble,  as  the  fragment  caught  on  a  grass  stub  but 
gave  way  when  he  had  braced  himself  and  was  pulling 
hardest.  Quite  abruptly  he  flew  off,  and  I  thought 
he  had  given  up  the  attempt. 

In  a  minute  he  was  back  with  his  mate,  thinking, 
no  doubt,  that  she,  as  a  capable  little  manager,  would 
know  all  about  such  things.  If  birds  do  not  talk,  they 
have  at  least  some  very  ingenious  ways  of  letting  one 
another  know  what  they  think,  which  amounts  to  the 
same  thing. 

The  two  worked  together  for  some  minutes,  getting 
an  occasional  thread,  but  not  enough  to  pay  for  the 
labor.  The  trouble  was  that  both  pulled  together  on 
the  same  side  ;  and  so  they  merely  dragged  the  bit 
of  cloth  all  over  the  lawn,  instead  of  pulling  out  the 
threads  they  wanted.  Once  they  unraveled  a  long 
thread  by  pulling  at  right  angles,  but  the  next 
moment  they  were  together  on  the  same  side  again. 
The  male  seemed  to  do,  not  as  he  was  told,  but 
exactly  what  he  saw  his  mate  do.  Whenever  she 
pulled  at  a  thread,  he  hopped  around,  as  close  to 
her  as  he  could  get,  and  pulled  too. 


74 


Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 


Twice  they  had  given  up  the  attempt,  only  to  return 
after  hunting  diligently  elsewhere.     Good  material  was 


scarce  that  season.  I  was  wondering  how  long  their 
patience  would  last,  when  the  female  suddenly  seized 
the  cloth  by  a  corner  and  flew  along  close  to  the 


An   Oriole  s  Nest.  75 

ground,  dragging  it  after  her,  chirping  loudly  the 
while.  She  disappeared  into  a  crab-apple  tree  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden,  whither  the  male  followed  her 
a  moment  later. 

Curious  as  to  what  they  were  doing,  yet  fearing  to 
disturb  them,  I  waited  where  I  was  till  I  saw  both 
birds  fly  to  the  nest,  each  with  some  long  threads. 
This  was  repeated;  and  then  curiosity  got  the  better 
of  consideration.  While  the  orioles  were  weaving  the 
last  threads  into  their  nest,  I  ran  round  the  house, 
crept  a  long  way  behind  the  old  wall,  and  so  to  a  safe 
hiding  place  near  the  crab-apple. 

The  orioles  had  solved  their  problem;  the  bit  of 
cloth  was  fastened  there  securely  among  the  thorns. 
Soon  the  birds  came  back  and,  seizing  some  threads 
by  the  ends,  raveled  them  out  without  difficulty.  It 
was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  to  gather  as  much 
material  as  they  could  use  at  one  weaving.  For  an 
hour  or  more  I  watched  them  working  industriously 
between  the  crab-apple  and  the  old  elm,  where  the 
nest  was  growing  rapidly  to  a  beautiful  depth.  Sev- 
eral times  the  bit  of  cloth  slipped  from  the  thorns  as 
the  birds  pulled  upon  it ;  but  as  often  as  it  did  they 
carried  it  back  and  fastened  it  more  securely,  till  at 
last  it  grew  so  snarled  that  they  could  get  no  more 
long  threads,  when  they  left  it  for  good. 

That  same  day  I  carried  out  some  bright-colored 


76  W 'ays  of  Wood  Folk. 

bits  of  worsted  and  ribbon,  and  scattered  them  on 
the  grass.  The  birds  soon  found  them  and  used 
them  in  completing  their  nest.  For  a  while  a  gayer 
little  dwelling  was  never  seen  in  a  tree.  The  bright 
bits  of  color  in  the  soft  gray  of  the  walls  gave  the 
nest  always  a  holiday  appearance,  in  good  keeping 
with  the  high  spirits  of  the  orioles.  But  by  the  time 
the  young  had  chipped  the  shell,  and  the  joyousness 
of  nest-building  had  given  place  to  the  constant  duties 
of  filling  hungry  little  mouths,  the  rains  and  the 
sun  of  summer  had  bleached  the  bright  colors  to  a 
uniform  sober  gray. 

That  was  a  happy  family  from  beginning  to  end. 
No  accident  ever  befell  it ;  no  enemy  disturbed  its 
peace.  And  when  the  young  birds  had  flown  away 
to  the  South,  I  took  down  the  nest  which  I  had  helped 
to  build,  and  hung  it  in  my  study  as  a  souvenir  of 
my  bright  little  neighbors. 


VI.     THE    BUILDERS. 

CURIOUS  bit  of  wild  life  came  to  me 
at  dusk  one  day  in  the  wilderness.  It 
was  midwinter,  and  the  snow  lay  deep. 
I  was  sitting  alone  on  a  fallen 
tree,  waiting  for  the  moon  to  rise 
so  that  I  could  follow  the  faint 
snowshoe  track  across  a  barren, 
three  miles,  tKen  through  a  mile 
of  forest  to  another  trail  that  led 
to  camp.  I  had  followed  a  caribou  too  far  that  day, 
and  this  was  the  result  —  feeling  along  my  own  track 
by  moonlight,  with  the  thermometer  sinking  rapidly 
to  the  twenty-below-zero  point. 

There  is  scarcely  any  twilight  in  the  woods  ;  in  ten 
minutes  it  would  be  quite  dark  ;  and  I  was  wishing 
that  I  had  blankets  and  an  axe,  so  that  I  could  camp 
where  I  was,  when  a  big  gray  shadow  came  stealing 
towards  me  through  the  trees.  It  was  a  Canada  lynx. 
My  fingers  gripped  the  rifle  hard,  and  the  right  mitten 
seemed  to  slip  off  of  itself  as  I  caught  the  glare  of  his 
fierce  yellow  eyes, 

77 


78  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

But  the  eyes  were  not  looking  at  me  at  all.  In- 
deed, he  had  not  noticed  me.  He  was  stealing  along, 
crouched  low  in  the  snow,  his  ears  back,  his  stub  tail 
twitching  nervously,  his  whole  attention  fixed  tensely 
on  something  beyond  me  out  on  the  barren.  I  wanted 
his  beautiful  skin ;  but  I  wanted  more  to  find  out  what 
he  was  after ;  so  I  kept  still  and  watched. 

At  the  edge  of  the  barren  he  crouched  under  a  dwarf 
spruce,  settled  himself  deeper  in  the  snow  by  a  wriggle 
or  two  till  his  feet  were  well  under  him  and  his  balance 
perfect,  and  the  red  fire  blazed  in  his  eyes  and  his  big 
muscles  quivered.  Then  he  hurled  himself  forward 
—  one,  two,  a  dozen  mighty  bounds  through  flying 
snow,  and  he  landed  with  a  screech  on  the  dome  of 
a  beaver  house.  There  he  jumped  about,  shaking  an 
imaginary  beaver  like  a  fury,  and  gave  another  screech 
that  made  one's  spine  tingle.  That  over,  he  stood  very 
still,  looking  off  over  the  beaver  roofs  that  dotted  the 
shore  of  a  little  pond  there.  The  blaze  died  out  of 
his  eyes ;  a  different  look  crept  into  them.  He  put 
his  nose  down  to  a  tiny  hole  in  the  mound,  the  beavers' 
ventilator,  and  took  a  long  sniff,  while  his  whole  body 
seemed  to  distend  with  the  warm  rich  odor  that  poured 
up  into  his  hungry  nostrils.  Then  he  rolled  his  head 
sadly,  and  went  away. 

Now  all  that  was  pure  acting.  A  lynx  likes  beaver 
meat  better  than  anything  else  ;  and  this  fellow  had 


The  Builders.  79 

caught  some  of  the  colony,  no  doubt,  in  the  well-fed 
autumn  days,  as  they  worked  on  their  dam  and  houses. 
Sharp  hunger  made  him  remember  them  as  he  came 
through  the  wood  on  his  nightly  hunt  after  hares. 
He  knew  well  that  the  beavers  were  safe ;  that 
months  of  intense  cold  had  made  their  two-foot  mud 
walls  like  granite.  But  he  came,  nevertheless,  just 
to  pretend  he  had  caught  one,  and  to  remember  how 
good  his  last  full  meal  smelled  when  he  ate  it  in 
October. 

It  was  all  so  boylike,  so  unexpected  there  in  the 
heart  of  the  wilderness,  that  I  quite  forgot  that  I 
wanted  the  lynx's  skin.  I  was  hungry  too,  and  went 
out  for  a  sniff  at  the  ventilator ;  and  it  smelled  good. 
I  remembered  the  time  once  when  I  had  eaten  beaver, 
and  was  glad  to  get  it.  I  walked  about  among  the 
houses.  On  every  dome  there  were  lynx  tracks,  old 
and  new,  and  the  prints  of  a  blunt  nose  in  the  snow. 
Evidently  he  came  often  to  dine  on  the  smell  of  good 
dinners.  I  looked  the  way  he  had  gone,  and  began 
to  be  sorry  for  him.  But  there  were  the  beavers,  safe 
and  warm  and  fearless  within  two  feet  of  me,  listening 
undoubtedly  to  the  strange  steps  without.  And  that 
was  good  ;  for  they  are  the  most  interesting  creatures 
in  all  the  wilderness. 

Most  of  us  know  the  beaver  chiefly  in  a  simile. 
"  Working  like  a  beaver,"  or  "  busy  as  a  beaver,"  is 


80  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

one  of  those  proverbial  expressions  that  people  accept 
without  comment  or  curiosity.  It  is  about  one-third 
true,  which  is  a  generous  proportion  of  truth  for  a 
proverb.  In  winter,  for  five  long  months  at  least,  he 
does  nothing  but  sleep  and  eat  and  keep  warm.  "  Lazy 
as  a  beaver  "  is  then  a  good  figure.  And  summer  time 
—  ah!  that's  just  one  long  holiday,  and  the  beavers 
are  jolly  as  grigs,  with  never  a  thought  of  work  from 
morning  till  night.  When  the  snow  is  gone,  and  the 
streams  are  clear,  and  the  twitter  of  bird  songs  meets 
the  beaver's  ear  as  he  rises  from  the  dark  passage 
under  water  that  leads  to  his  house,  then  he  forgets 
all  settled  habits  and  joins  in  the  general  heyday  of 
nature.  The  well  built  house  that  sheltered  him  from 
storm  and  cold,  and  defied  even  the  wolverine  to  dig 
its  owner  out,  is  deserted  for  any  otter's  den  or  chance 
hole  in  the  bank  where  he  may  sleep  away  the  sun- 
light in  peace.  The  great  dam,  upon  which  he  toiled 
so  many  nights,  is  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  freshet  or 
the  canoeman's  axe ;  and  no  plash  of  falling  water 
through  a  break  —  that  sound  which  in  autumn  or 
winter  brings  the  beaver  like  a  flash  —  will  trouble 
his  wise  little  head  for  a  moment. 

All  the  long  summer  he  belongs  to  the  tribe  of 
Ishmael,  wandering  through  lakes  and  streams  wher- 
ever fancy  leads  him.  It  is  as  if  he  were  bound  to 
see  the  world  after  being  cooped  up  in  his  narrow 


The  Builders.  8 1 

quarters  all  winter.  Even  the  strong  family  ties, 
one  of  the  most  characteristic  and  interesting  things 
in  beaver  life,  are  for  the  time  loosened.  Every 
family  group  when  it  breaks  up  housekeeping  in  the 
spring  represents  five  generations.  First,  there  are 
the  two  old  beavers,  heads  of  the  family  and  absolute 
rulers,  who  first  engineered  the  big  dam  and  houses, 
and  have  directed  repairs  for  nobody  knows  how  long. 
Next  in  importance  are  the  baby  beavers,  no  bigger 
than  musquashes,  with  fur  like  silk  velvet,  and  eyes 
always  wide  open  at  the  wonders  of  the  first  season 
out;  then  the  one-  and  two-year-olds,  frisky  as  boys 
let  loose  from  school,  always  in  mischief  and  having 
to  be  looked  after,  and  occasionally  nipped ;  then 
'the  three-year-olds,  who  presently  leave  the  group 
and  go  their  separate  happy  ways  in  search  of  mates. 
So  the  long  days  go  by  in  a  kind  of  careless  summer 
excursion ;  and  when  one  sometimes  finds  their  camp- 
ing ground  in  his  own  summer  roving  through  the 
wilderness,  he  looks  upon  it  with  curious  sympathy. 
Fellow  campers  are  they,  pitching  their  tents  by 
sunny  lakes  and  alder-fringed,  trout-haunted  brooks, 
always  close  to  Nature's  heart,  and  loving  the  wild, 
free  life  much  as  he  does  himself. 

But  when  the  days  grow  short  and  chill,  and  the 
twitter  of  warblers  gives  place  to  the  honk  of  passing 
geese,  and  wild  ducks  gather  in  the  lakes,  then  the 


82  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

heart  of  the  beaver  goes  back  to  his  home ;  and  pres- 
ently he  follows  his  heart.  September  finds  them 
gathered  about  the  old  dam  again,  the  older  heads 
filled  with  plans  of  repair  and  new  houses  and  winter 
food  and  many  other  things.  The  grown-up  males 
have  brought  their  mates  back  to  the  old  home ;  the 
females  have  found  their  places  in  other  family  groups. 
It  is  then  that  the  beaver  begins  to  be  busy. 

His  first  concern  is  for  a  stout  dam  across  the 
stream  that  will  give  him  a  good-sized  pond  and 
plenty  of  deep  water.  To  understand  this,  one  must 
remember  that  the  beaver  intends  to  shut  himself  in 
a  kind  of  prison  all  winter.  He  knows  well  that  he 
is  not  safe  on  land  a  moment  after  the  snow  falls ; 
that  some  prowling  lucivee  or  wolverine  would  find 
his  tracks  and  follow  him,  and  that  his  escape  to 
water  would  be  cut  off  by  thick  ice.  So  he  plans  a 
big  claw-proof  house  with  no  entrance  save  a  tunnel 
in  the  middle,  which  leads  through  the  bank  to  the 
bottom  of  his  artificial  pond.  Once  this  is  frozen 
over,  he  cannot  get  out  till  the  spring  sun  sets  him 
free.  But  he  likes  a  big  pond,  that  he  may  exercise 
a  bit  under  water  when  he  comes  down  for  his  dinner ; 
and  a  deep  pond,  that  he  may  feel  sure  the  hardest 
winter  will  never  freeze  down  to  his  doorway  and  shut 
him  in.  Still  more  important,  the  beaver's  food  is 
stored  on  the  bottom ;  and  it  would  never  do  to  trust 


The  Builders.  83 

it  to  shallow  water,  else  some  severe  winter  it  would 
get  frozen  into  the  ice,  and  the  beavers  starve  in 
their  prison.  Ten  to  fifteen  feet  usually  satisfies  their 
instinct  for  safety;  but  to  get  that  depth  of  water, 
especially  on  shallow  streams,  requires  a  huge  dam 
and  an  enormous  amount  of  work,  to  say  nothing 
of  planning. 

Beaver  dams  are  solid  structures  always,  built  up 
of  logs,  brush,  stones,  and  driftwood,  well  knit  together 
by  alder  poles.  One  summer,  in  canoeing  a  wild, 
unknown  stream,  I  met  fourteen  dams  within  a  space 
of  five  miles.  Through  two  of  these  my  Indian  and 
I  broke  a  passage  with  our  axes ;  the  others  were  so 
solid  that  it  was  easier  to  unload  our  canoe  and  make 
a  portage  than  to  break  through.  Dams  are  found 
close  together  like  that  when  a  beaver  colony  has 
occupied  a  stream  for  years  unmolested.  The  food- 
wood  above  the  first  dam  being  cut  off,  they  move 
down  stream ;  for  the  beaver  always  cuts  on  the 
banks  above  his  dam,  and  lets  the  current  work  for 
him  in  transportation.  Sometimes,  when  the  banks 
are  such  that  a  pond  cannot  be  made,  three  or  four 
dams  will  be  built  close  together,  the  back-water  of 
one  reaching  up  to  the  one  above,  like  a  series  of 
locks  on  a  canal.  This  is  to  keep  the  colony  together, 
and  yet  give  room  for  play  and  storage. 

There  is  the  greatest  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the 


84  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

intelligence  displayed  by  the  beavers  in  choosing  a 
site  for  their  dam,  one  observer  claiming  skill,  inge- 
nuity, even  reason  for  the  beavers ;  another  claiming 
a  mere  instinctive  haphazard  piling  together  of  mate- 
rials anywhere  in  the  stream.  I  have  seen  perhaps  a 
hundred  different  dams  in  the  wilderness,  nearly  all 
of  which  were  well  placed.  Occasionally  I  have  found 
one  that  looked  like  a  stupid  piece  of  work  —  two  or 
three  hundred  feet  of  alder  brush  and  gravel  across 
the  widest  part  of  a  stream,  when,  by  building  just 
above  or  below,  a  dam  one-fourth  the  length  might 
have  given  them  better  water.  This  must  be  said, 
however,  for  the  builders,  that  perhaps  they  found  a 
better  soil  for  digging  their  tunnels,  or  a  more  con- 
venient spot  for  their  houses  near  their  own  dam  ;  or 
that  they  knew  what  they  wanted  better  than  their 
critic  did.  I  think  undoubtedly  the  young  beavers 
often  make  mistakes,  but  I  think  also,  from  studying 
a  good  many  dams,  that  they  profit  by  disaster,  and 
build  better;  and  that  on  the  whole  their  mistakes 
are  not  proportionally  greater  than  those  of  human 
builders. 

Sometimes  a  dam  proves  a  very  white  elephant  on 
their  hands.  The  site  is  not  well  chosen,  or  the 
stream  difficult,  and  the  restrained  water  pours  round 
the  ends  of  their  dam,  cutting  them  away.  They  build 
the  dam  longer  at  once ;  but  again  the  water  pours 


The  Builders.  85 

round  on  its  work  of  destruction.  So  they  keep  on 
building,  an  interminable  structure,  till  the  frosts  come, 
and  they  must  cut  their  wood  and  tumble  their  houses 
together  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  be  ready  when  the  ice 
closes  over  them. 

But  on  alder  streams,  where  the  current  is  sluggish 
and  the  soil  soft,  one  sometimes  finds  a  wonderfully 
ingenious  device  for  remedying  the  above  difficulty. 
When  the  dam  is  built,  and  the  water  deep  enough 
for  safety,  the  beavers  dig  a  canal  around  one  end  of 
the  dam  to  carry  off  the  surplus  water.  I  know  of 
nothing  in  all  the  woods  and  fields  that  brings  one 
closer  in  thought  and  sympathy  to  the  little  wild  folk 
than  to  come  across  one  of  these  canals,  the  water 
pouring  safely  through  it  past  the  beaver's  handiwork, 
the  dam  stretching  straight  and  solid  across  the  stream, 
and  the  domed  houses  rising  beyond. 

Once  I  found  where  the  beavers  had  utilized  man's 
work.  A  huge  log  dam  had  been  built  on  a  wilder- 
ness stream  to  secure  a  head  of  water  for  driving  logs 
from  the  lumber  woods.  When  the  pines  and  four- 
teen-inch  spruce  were  all  gone,  the  works  were  aban- 
doned, and  the  dam  left  —  with  the  gates  open,  of 
course.  A  pair  of  young  beavers,  prospecting  for  a 
winter  home,  found  the  place  and  were  suited  exactly. 
They  rolled  a  sunken  log  across  the  gates  for  a  foun- 
dation, filled  them  up  with  alder  bushes  and  stones, 


86  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

and  the  work  was  done.  When  I  found  the  place 
they  had  a  pond  a  mile  wide  to  play  in.  Their  house 
was  in  a  beautiful  spot,  under  a  big  hemlock ;  and 
their  doorway  slanted  off  into  twenty  feet  of  water. 
That  site  was  certainly  well  chosen. 

Another  dam  that  I  found  one  winter  when  caribou- 
hunting  was  wonderfully  well  placed.  No  engineer 
could  have  chosen  better.  It  was  made  by  the  same 
colony  the  lynx  was  after,  and  just  below  where  he 
went  through  his  pantomime  for  my  benefit ;  his 
tracks  were  there  too.  The  barrens  of  which  I  spoke 
are  treeless  plains  in  the  northern  forest,  the  beds  of 
ancient  shallow  lakes.  The  beavers  found  one  with 
a  stream  running  through  it;  followed  the  stream 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  barren,  where  two  wooded 
points  came  out  from  either  side  and  almost  met. 
Here  was  formerly  the  outlet ;  and  here  the  beavers 
built  their  dam,  and  so  made  the  old  lake  over  again. 
It  must  be  a  wonderfully  fine  place  in  summer  —  two 
or  three  thousand  acres  of  playground,  full  of  cran- 
berries and  luscious  roots.  In  winter  it  is  too  shallow 
to  be  of  much  use,  save  for  a  few  acres  about  the 
beavers'  doorways. 

There  are  three  ways  of  dam-building  in  general 
use  among  tKe  beavers.  The  first  is  for  use  on  slug- 
gish, alder-fringed  streams,  where  they  can  build  up 
from  the  bottom.  Two  or  three  sunken  logs  form 


The  Builders.  87 

the  foundation,  which  is  from  three  to  five  feet  broad. 
Sticks,  driftwood,  and  stout  poles,  which  the  beavers 
cut  on  the  banks,  are  piled  on  this  and  weighted  with 
stones  and  mud.  The  stones  are  rolled  in  from  the 
bank  or  moved  considerable  distances  under  water. 
The  mud  is  carried  in  the  beaver's  paws,  which  he 
holds  up  against  his  chin  so  as  to  ca-rry  a  big  handful 
without  spilling.  Beavers  love  such  streams,  with 
their  alder  shade  and  sweet  grasses  and  fringe  of 
wild  meadow,  better  than  all  other  places.  And,  by 
the  way,  most  of  the  natural  meadows  and  half  the 
ponds  of  New  England  were  made  by  beavers.  If 
you  go  to  the  foot  of  any  little  meadow  in  the  woods 
and  dig  at  the  lower  end,  where  the  stream  goes  out, 
you  will  find,  sometimes  ten  feet  under  the  surface, 
the  remains  of  the  first  dam  that  formed  the  meadow 
when  the  water  flowed  back  and  killed  the  trees. 

The  second  kind  of  dam  is  for  swift  streams.  Stout, 
ten-foot  brush  is  the  chief  material.  The  brush  is 
floated  down  to  the  spot  selected ;  the  tops  are 
weighted  down  with  stones,  and  the  butts  left  free, 
pointing  down  stream.  Such  dams  must  be  built  out 
from  the  sides,  of  course.  They  are  generally  arched, 
the  convex  side  being  up  stream  so  as  to  make  a 
stronger  structure.  When  the  arch  closes  in  the  mid- 
dle, the  lower  side  of  the  dam  is  banked  heavily  with 
earth  and  stones.  That  is  shrewd  policy  on  the  bea- 


88  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

ver's  part ;  for  once  the  arch  is  closed  by  brush,  the 
current  can  no  longer  sweep  away  the  earth  and 
stones  used  for  the  embankment. 

The  third  kind  is  the  strongest  and  easiest  to  build. 
It  is  for  places  where  big  trees  lean  out  over  the 
stream.  Three  or  four  beavers  gather  about  a  tree 
and  begin  to  cut,  sitting  up  on  their  broad  tails.  One 
stands  above  them  on  the  bank,  apparently  directing 
the  work.  In  a  short  time  the  tree  is  nearly  cut 
through  from  the  under  side.  Then  the  beaver  above 
begins  to  cut  down  carefully.  With  the  first  warning 
crack  he  jumps  aside,  and  the  tree  falls  straight  across 
where  it  is  wanted.  All  the  beavers  then  disappear 
and  begin  cutting  the  branches  that  rest  on  the  bot- 
tom. Slowly  the  tree  settles  till  its  trunk  is  at  the 
right  height  to  make  the  top  of  the  dam.  The  upper 
branches  are  then  trimmed  close  to  the  trunk,  and 
are  woven  with  alders  among  the  long  stubs  sticking 
down  from  the  trunk  into  the  river  bed.  Stones,  mud, 
and  brush  are  used  liberally  to  fill  the  chinks,  and  in 
a  remarkably  short  time  the  dam  is  complete. 

When  you  meet  such  a  dam  on  the  stream  you  are 
canoeing  don't  attempt  to  break  through.  You  will  find 
it  shorter  by  several  hours  to  unload  and  make  a  carry. 

All  the  beaver's  cutting  is  done  by  chisel-edged 
front  teeth.  There  are  two  of  these  in  each  jaw, 
extending  a  good  inch  and  a  half  outside  the  gums, 


The  Builders.  89 

and  meeting  at  a  sharp  bevel.  The  inner  sides  of  the 
teeth  are  softer  and  wear  away  faster  than  the  outer, 
so  that  the  bevel  remains  the  same  ;  and  the  action  of 
the  upper  and  lower  teeth  over  each  other  keeps  them 
always  sharp.  They  grow  so  rapidly  that  a  beaver 
must  be  constantly  wood  cutting  to  keep  them  worn 
down  to  comfortable  size. 

Often  on  wild  streams  you  find  a  stick  floating 
down  to  meet  you  showing  a  fresh  cut.  You  grab  it, 
of  course,  and  say  :  "  Somebody  is  camped  above  here. 
That  stick  has  just  been  cut  with  a  sharp  knife."  But 
look  closer ;  see  that  faint  ridge  the  whole  length  of 
the  cut,  as  if  the  knife  had  a  tiny  gap  in  its  edge. 
That  is  where  the  beaver's  two  upper  teeth  meet,  and 
the  edge  is  not  quite  perfect.  He  cut  that  stick, 
thicker  than  a  man's  thumb,  at  a  single  bite.  To 
cut  an  alder  having  the  diameter  of  a  teacup  is  the 
work  of  a  minute  for  the  same  tools ;  and  a  towering 
birch  tree  falls  in  a  remarkably  short  time  when 
attacked  by  three  or  four  beavers.  Around  the  stump 
of  such  a  tree  you  find  a  pile  of  two-inch  chips,  thick, 
white,  clean  cut,  and  arched  to  the  curve  of  the  bea- 
ver's teeth.  Judge  the  workman  by  his  chips,  and 
this  is  a  good  workman. 

When  the  dam  is  built  the  beaver  cuts  his  winter 
food-wood.  A  colony  of  the  creatures  will  often  fell 
a  whole  grove  of  young  birch  or  poplar  on  the  bank 


90  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

above  the  dam.  The  branches  with  the  best  bark  are 
then  cut  into  short  lengths,  which  are  rolled  down  the 
bank  and  floated  to  the  pool  at  the  dam. 

Considerable  discussion  has  taken  place  as  to  how 
the  beaver  sinks  his  wood  —  for  of  course  he  must 
sink  it,  else  it  would  freeze  into  'the  ice  and  be  use- 
less. One  theory  is  that  the  beavers  suck  the  air 
from  each  stick.  Two  witnesses  declare  to  me  they 
have  seen  them  doing  it ;  and  in  a  natural  history 
book  of  my  childhood  there  is  a  picture  of  a  beaver 
with  the  end  of  a  three-foot  stick  in  his  mouth,  suck- 
ing the  air  out.  Just  as  if  the  beavers  did  n't  know 
better,  even  if  the  absurd  thing  were  possible  !  The 
simplest  way  is  to  cut  the  wood  early  and  leave  it  in 
the  water  a  while,  when  it  sinks  of  itself ;  for  green 
birch  and  poplar  are  almost  as  heavy  as  water.  They 
soon  get  waterlogged  and  go  to  the  bottom.  It  is 
almost  impossible  for  lumbermen  to  drive  spool  wood 
(birch)  for  this  reason.  If  the  nights  grow  suddenly 
cold  before  the  wood  sinks,  the  beavers  take  it  down 
to  the  bottom  and  press  it  slightly  into  the  mud ; 
or  else  they  push  sticks  under  those  that  float  against 
the  dam,  and  more  under  these ;  and  so  on  till  the 
stream  is  full  to  the  bottom,  the  weight  of  those  above 
keeping  the  others  down.  Much  of  the  wood  is  lost 
in  this  way  by  being  frozen  into  the  ice  ;  but  the 
beaver  knows  that,  and  cuts  plenty. 


The  Builders.  91 

When  a  beaver  is  hungry  in  winter  he  comes  down 
under  the  ice,  selects  a  stick,  carries  it  up  into  his 
house,  and  eats  the  bark.  Then  he  carries  the  peeled 
stick  back  under  the  ice  and  puts  it  aside  out  of  the 
way. 

Once,  in  winter,  it  occurred  to  me  that  soaking 
spoiled  the  flavor  of  bark,  and  that  the  beavers  might 
like  a  fresh  bite.  So  I  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice  on  the 
pool  above  their  dam.  Of  course  the  chopping  scared 
the  beavers ;  it  was  vain  to  experiment  that  day. 
I  spread  a  blanket  and  some  thick  boughs  over  the 
hole  to  keep  it  from  freezing  over 'too  thickly,  and 
went  away. 

Next  day  I  pushed  the  end  of  a  freshly  cut  birch 
pole  down  among  the  beavers'  store,  lay  down  with 
my  face  to  the  hole  after  carefully  cutting  out  the 
thin  ice,  drew  a  big  blanket  round  my  head  and  the 
projecting  end  of  the  pole  to  shut  out  the  light,  and 
watched.  For  a  while  it  was  all  dark  as  a  pocket ; 
then  I  began  to  see  things  dimly.  Presently  a  darker 
shadow  shot  along  the  bottom  and  grabbed  the  pole. 
It  was  a  beaver,  with  a  twenty  dollar  coat  on.  He 
tugged;  I  held  on  tight  —  which  surprised  him  so 
that  he  went  back  into  his  house  to  catch  breath. 

But  the  taste  of  fresh  bark  was  in  his  mouth,  and 
soon  he  was  back  with  another  beaver.  Both  took 
hold  this  time  and  pulled  together.  No  use  !  They 


92  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

began  to  swim  round,  examining  the  queer  pole  on 
every  side.  "  What  kind  of  a  stick  are  you,  anyway  ? " 
one  was  thinking.  "  You  did  n't  grow  here,  because 
I  would  have  found  you  long  ago."  "  And  you  're 
not  frozen  into  the  ice,"  said  the  other,  "  because  you 
wriggle."  Then  they  both  took  hold  again,  and  I 
began  to  haul  up  carefully.  I  wanted  to  see  them 
nearer.  That  surprised  them  immensely ;  but  I  think 
they  would  have  held  on  only  for  an  accident.  The 
blanket  slipped  away ;  a  stream  of  light  shot  in ; 
there  were  two  great  whirls  in  the  water;  and  that 
was  the  end  of  the  experiment.  They  did  not  come 
back,  though  I  waited  till  I  was  almost  frozen.  But 
I  cut  some  fresh  birch  and  pushed  it  under  the  ice 
to  pay  for  my  share  in  the  entertainment. 

The  beaver's  house  is  generally  the  last  thing 
attended  to.  He  likes  to  build  this  when  the  nights 
grow  cold  enough  to  freeze  his  mortar  soon  after  it 
is  laid.  Two  or  three  tunnels  are  dug  from  the 
bottom  of  the  beaver  pond  up  through  the  bank, 
coming  to  the  surface  together  at  the  point  where 
the  center  of  the  house  is  to  be.  Around  this  he 
lays  solid  foundations  of  log  and  stone  in  a  circle 
from  six  to  fifteen  feet  in  diameter,  according  to  the 
number  of  beavers  to  occupy  the  house.  On  these 
foundations  he  rears  a  thick  mass  of  sticks  and  grass, 
which  are  held  together  by  plenty  of  mud.  The  top 


The  Builders.  93 

is  roofed  by  stout  sticks  arranged  as  in  an  Indian 
wigwam,  and  the  whole  domed  over  with  grass, 
stones,  sticks,  and  mud.  Once  this  is  solidly  frozen, 
the  beaver  sleeps  in  peace ;  his  house  is  burglar 
proof. 

If  on  a  lake  shore,  where  the  rise  of  water  is  never 
great,  the  beaver's  house  is  four  or  five  feet  high.  On 
streams  subject  to  freshets  they  may  be  two  or  three 
times  that  height.  As  in  the  case  of  the  musquash 
(or  muskrat),  a  strange  instinct  guides  the  beaver  as 
to  the  height  of  his  dwelling.  He  buiids  high  or  low, 
according  to  his  expectations  of  high  or  low  water; 
and  he  is  rarely  drowned  out  of  his  dry  nest. 

Sometimes  two  or  three  families  unite  to  build  a 
single  large  house,  but  always  in  such  cases  each 
family  has  its  separate  apartment.  When  a  house 
is  dug  open  it  is  evident  from  the  different  impres- 
sions that  each  member  of  the  family  has  his  own 
bed,  which  he  always  occupies.  Beavers  are  exem- 
plary in  their  neatness ;  the  house  after  five  months' 
use  is  as  neat  as  when  first  made. 

All  their  building  is  primarily  a  matter  of  instinct, 
for  a  tame  beaver  builds  miniature  dams  and  houses 
on  the  floor  of  his  cage.  Still  it  is  not  an  uncon- 
trollable instinct  like  that  of  most  birds ;  nor  blind, 
like  that  of  rats  and  squirrels  at  times.  I  have  found 
beaver  houses  on  lake  shores  where  no  dam  was 


94  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

built,  simply  because  the  water  was  deep  enough, 
and  none  was  needed.  In  vacation  time  the  young 
beavers  build  for  fun,  just  as  boys  build  a  dam  wher- 
ever they  can  find  running  water.  I  am  persuaded 
also  (and  this  may  explain  some  of  the  dams  that 


seem  stupidly  placed)  that  at  times  the  old  beavers 
set  the.  young  to  work  in  summer,  in  order  that  they 
may  know  how  to  build  when  it  becomes  necessary. 
This  is  a  hard  theory  to  prove,  for  the  beavers  work 
by  night,  preferably  on  dark,  rainy  nights,  when  they 
are  safest  on  land  to  gather  materials.  But  while 
building  is  instinctive,  skilful  building  is  the  result 


The  Builders.  95 

of  practice  and  experience.  And  some  of  the  beaver 
dams  show  wonderful  skill. 

There  is  one  beaver  that  never  builds,  that  never 
troubles  himself  about  house,  or  dam,  or  winter's 
store.  I  am  not  sure  whether  we  ought  to  call  him 
the  genius  or  the  lazy  man  of  the  family.  The  bank 
beaver  is  a  solitary  old  bachelor  living  in  a  den,  like 
a  mink,  in  the  bank  of  a  stream.  He  does  not  build 
a  house,  because  a  den  under  a  cedar's  roots  is  as  safe 
and  warm.  He  never  builds  a  dam,  because  there  are 
deep  places  in  the  river  where  the  current  is  too  swift 
to  freeze.  He  finds  tender  twigs  much  juicier,  even 
in  winter,  than  stale  bark  stored  under  water.  As 
for  his  telltale  tracks  in  the  snow,  his  wits  must 
guard  him  against  enemies ;  and  there  is  the  open 
stretch  of  river  to  flee  to. 

There  are  two  theories  among  Indians  and  trappers 
to  account  for  the  bank  beaver's  eccentricities.  The 
first  is  that  he  has  failed  to  find  a  mate  and  leaves 
the  colony,  or  is  driven  out,  to  lead  a  lonely  bachelor 
life.  His  conduct  during  the  mating  season  certainly 
favors  this  theory,  for  never  was  anybody  more  dili- 
gent in  his  search  for  a  wife  than  he.  Up  and  down 
the  streams  and  alder  brooks  of  a  whole  wild  country- 
side he  wanders  without  rest,  stopping  here  and  there 
on  a  grassy  point  to  gather  a  little  handful  of  mud, 
like  a  child's  mud  pie,  all  patted  smooth,  in  the  midst 


96  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

of  which  is  a  little  strong  smelling  musk.  When 
you  find  that  sign,  in  a  circle  of  carefully  trimmed 
grass  under  the  alders,  you  know  that  there  is  a 
young  beaver  on  that  stream  looking  for  a  wife. 
And  when  the  young  beaver  finds  his  pie  opened 
and  closed  again,  he  knows  that  there  is  a  mate  there 
somewhere  waiting  for  him.  But  the  poor  bank 
beaver  never  finds  his  mate,  and  the  next  winter 
must  go  back  to  his  solitary  den.  He  is  much  more 
easily  caught  than  other  beavers,  and  the  trappers 
say  it  is  because  he  is  lonely  and  tired  of  life. 

The  second  theory  is  that  generally  held  by  Indians. 
They  say  the  bank  beaver  is  lazy  and  refuses  to  work 
with  the  others ;  so  they  drive  him  out.  When 
beavers  are  busy  they  are  very  busy,  and  tolerate  no 
loafing.  Perhaps  he  even  tries  to  persuade  them 
that  all  their  work  is  unnecessary,  and  so  shares 
the  fate  of  reformers  in  general. 

While  examining  the  den  of  a  bank  beaver  last 
summer  another  theory  suggested  itself.  Is  not  this 
one  of  the  rare  animals  in  which  all  the  instincts  of 
his  kind  are  lacking  ?  He  does  not  build  because 
he  has  no  impulse  to  build ;  he  does  not  know  how. 
So  he  represents  what  the  beaver  was,  thousands  of 
years  ago,  before  he  learned  how  to  construct  his 
dam  and  house,  reappearing  now  by  some  strange 
freak  of  heredity,  and  finding  himself  wofully  out  of 


The  Builders.  97 

place  and  time.  The  other  beavers  drive  him  away 
because  all  gregarious  animals  and  birds  have  a 
strong  fear  and  dislike  of  any  irregularity  in  their 
kind.  Even  when  the  peculiarity  is  slight  —  a  wound, 
or  a  deformity  —  they  drive  the  poor  victim  from  their 
midst  remorselessly.  It  is  a  cruel  instinct,  but  part 
of  one  of  the  oldest  in  creation,  the  instinct  which 
preserves  the  species.  This  explains  why  the  bank 
"beaver  never  finds  a  mate ;  none  of  the  beavers  will 
have  anything  to  do  with  him. 

This  occasional  lack  of  instinct  is  not  peculiar  to 
the  beavers.  Now  and  then  a  bird  is  hatched  here 
in  the  North  that  has  no  impulse  to  migrate.  He 
cries  after  his  departing  comrades,  but  never  follows. 
So  he  remains  and  is  lost  in  the  storms  of  winter. 

There  are  few  creatures  in  the  wilderness  more 
difficult  to  observe  than  the  beavers,  both  on  account 
of  their  extreme  shyness  and  because  they  work  only 
by  night.  The  best  way  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them  at 
work  is  to  make  a  break  in  their  dam  and  pull  the 
top  from  one  of  their  houses  some  autumn  afternoon, 
at  the  time  of  full  moon.  Just  before  twilight  you 
must  steal  back  and  hide  some  distance  from  the 
dam.  Even  then  the  chances  are  against  you,  for 
the  beavers  are  suspicious,  keen  of  ear  and  nose,  and 
generally  refuse  to  show  themselves  till  after  the 
moon  sets  or  you  have  gone  away.  You  may  have 


98  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

to  break  their  dam  half  a  dozen  times,  and  freeze  as 
often,  before  you  see  it  repaired. 

It  is  a  most  interesting  sight  when  it  comes  at  last, 
and  well  repays  the  watching.  The  water  is  pouring 
through  a  five-foot  break  in  the  dam ;  the  roof  of  a 
house  is  in  ruins.  You  have  rubbed  yourself  all  over 
with  fir  boughs,  to  destroy  some  of  the  scent  in  your 
clothes,  and  hidden  yourself  in  the  top  of  a  fallen 
tree.  The  twilight  goes ;  the  moon  wheels  over  the 
eastern  spruces,  flooding  the  river  with  silver  light. 
Still  no  sign  of  life.  You  are  beginning  to  think  of 
another  disappointment ;  to  think  your  toes  cannot 
stand  the  cold  another  minute  without  stamping, 
which  would  spoil  everything,  when  a  ripple  shoots 
swiftly  across  the  pool,  and  a  big  beaver  comes  out 
on  the  bank.  He  sits  up  a  moment,  looking,  listen- 
ing ;  then  goes  to  the  broken  house  and  sits  up  again, 
looking  it  all  over,  estimating  damages,  making  plans. 
There  is  a  commotion  in  the  water;  three  others 
join  him  —  you  are  warm  now. 

Meanwhile  three  or  four  more  are  swimming  about 
the  dam,  surveying  the  damage  there.  One  dives  to 
the  bottom,  but  comes  up  in  a  moment  to  report  all 
safe  below.  Another  is  tugging  at  a  thick  pole  just 
below  you.  Slowly  he  tows  it  out  in  front,  balances 
a  moment  and  lets  it  go — good!  —  squarely  across 
the  break.  Two  others  are,  cutting  alders  above ; 


The  Builders.  99 

and  here  come  the  bushes  floating  down.  Over  at 
the  damaged  house  two  beavers  are  up  on  the  walls, 
raising  the  rafters  into  place  ;  a  third  appears  to  be 
laying  on  the  outer  covering  and  plastering  it  with 
mud.  Now  and  then  one  sits  up  straight  like  a 
rabbit,  listens,  stretches  his  back  to  get  the  kinks 
out,  then  drops  to  his  work  again. 

It  is  brighter  now ;  moon  and  stars  are  glimmering 
in  the  pool.  At  the  dam  the  sound  of  falling  water 
grows  faint  as  the  break  is  rapidly  closed.  The 
houses  loom  larger.  Over  the  dome  of  the  one 
broken,  the  dark  outline  of  a  beaver  passes  trium- 
phantly. Quick  work  that.  You  grow  more  inter- 
ested ;  you  stretch  your  neck  to  see  —  splash  !  A 
beaver  gliding  past  has  seen  you.  As  he  dives  he 
gives  the  water  a  sharp  blow  with  his  broad  tail,  the 
danger  signal  of  the  beavers,  and  a  startling  one  in 
the  dead  stillness.  There  is  a  sound  as  of  a  stick 
being  plunged  end  first  into  the  water;  a  few  eddies 
go  running  about  the  pool,  breaking  up  the  moon's 
reflection ;  then  silence  again,  and  the  lap  of  ripples 
on  the  shore. 

You  can  go  home  now ;  you  will  see  nothing  more 
to-night.  There 's  a  beaver  over  under  the  other 
bank,  in  the  shadow  where  you  cannot  see  him,  just 
his  eyes  and  ears  above  water,  watching  you.  He  will 
not  stir;  nor  will  another  beaver  come  out  till  you 


ioo  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

go  away.  As  you  find  your  canoe  and  paddle  back 
to  camp,  a  ripple  made  by  a  beaver's  nose  follows 
silently  in  the  shadow  of  the  alders.  At  the  bend 
of  the  river  where  you  disappear,  the  ripple  halts  a 
while,  like  a  projecting  stub  in  the  current,  then  turns 
and  goes  swiftly  back.  There  is  another  splash ;  the 
builders  come  out  again ;  a  dozen  ripples  are  scat- 
tering star  reflections  all  over  the  pool ;  while  the  little 
wood  folk  pause  a  moment  to  look  at  the  new  works 
curiously,  then  go  their  ways,  shy,  silent,  industrious, 
through  the  wilderness  night. 


VII.     CROW-WAYS. 

crow  is  very  much  of  a  rascal  — 
that  is,  if  any  creature  can  be  called  a 
rascal  for  following  out  natural  and  ras- 
cally inclinations.  I  first  came  to  this 
conclusion  one  early  morning,  several 
years  ago,  as  I  watched  an  old  crow  diligently  explor- 
ing a  fringe  of  bushes  that  grew  along  the  wall  of  a 
deserted  pasture.  He  had  eaten  a  clutch  of  thrush's 
eggs,  and  carried  off  three  young  sparrows  to  feed  his 
own  young,  before  I  found  out  what  he  was  about. 
Since  then  I  have  surprised  him  often  at  the  same 
depredations. 

An  old  farmer  has  assured  me  that  he  has  also 
caught  him  tormenting  his  sheep,  lighting  on  their 
backs  and  pulling  the  wool  out  by  the  roots  to  get 
fleece  for  lining  his  nest.  This  is  a  much  more  seri- 
ous charge  than  that  of  pulling  up  corn,  though  the 
latter  makes  almost  every  farmer  his  enemy. 

Yet  with  all  his  rascality  he  has  many  curious  and 
interesting  ways.  In  fact,  I  hardly  know  another  bird 
that  so  well  repays  a  season's  study ;  only  one  must 


IO2  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

be  very  patient,  and  put  up  with  frequent  disappoint- 
ments if  he  would  learn  much  of  a  crow's  peculiarities 
by  personal  observation.  How  shy  he  is  !  How  cun- 
ning and  quick  to  learn  wisdom  !  Yet  he  is  very  easily 
fooled  ;  and  some  experiences  that  ought  to  teach  him 
wisdom  he  seems  to  forget  within  an  hour.  Almost 
every  time  I  went  shooting,  in  the  old  barbarian  days 
before  I  learned  better,  I  used  to  get  one  or  two  crows 
from  a  flock  that  ranged  over  my  hunting  ground  by 
simply  hiding  among  the  pines  and  calling  like  a 
young  crow.  If  the  flock  was  within  hearing,  it  was 
astonishing  to  hear  the  loud  chorus  of  haw-haws,  and 
to  see  them  come  rushing  over  the  same  grove  where 
a  week  before  they  had  been  fooled  in  the  same  way. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  they  seemed  to  remember;  and 
when  the  pseudo  young  crow  began  his  racket  at  the 
bottom  of  some  thick  grove  they  would  collect  on  a 
distant  pine  tree  and  haw-haw  in  vigorous  answer. 
But  curiosity  always  got  the  better  of  them,  and  they 
generally  compromised  by  sending  over  some  swift, 
long-winged  old  flier,  only  to  see  him  go  tumbling 
down  at  the  report  of  a  gun  ;  and  away  they  would 
go,  screaming  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  and  never 
stopping  till  they  were  miles  away.  Next  week  they 
would  do  exactly  the  same  thing. 

Crows,  more  than  any  other  birds,  are  fond  of  excite- 
ment and  great  crowds ;  the  slightest  unusual  object 


.  Crow -Ways.  103 

furnishes  an  occasion  for  an  assembly.  A  wounded 
bird  will  create  as  much  stir  in  a  flock  of  crows  as  a 
railroad  accident  does  in  a  village.  But  when  some 
prowling  old  crow  discovers  an  owl  sleeping  away  the 
sunlight  in  the  top  of  a  great  hemlock,  his  delight  and 
excitement  know  no  bounds.  There  is  a  suppressed 
frenzy  in  his  very  call  that  every  crow  in  the  neigh- 
borhood understands.  Come  /  come  !  everybody  come  ! 
he  seems  to  be  screaming  as  he  circles  over  the  tree- 
top;  and  within  two  minutes  there  are x  more  crows 
gathered  about  that  old  hemlock  than  one  would 
believe  existed  within  miles  of  the  place.  I  counted 
over  seventy  one  day,  immediately  about  a  tree  in 
which  one  of  them  had  found  an  owl ;  and  I  think 
there  must  have  been  as  many  more  flying  about 
the  outskirts  that  I  could  not  count. 

At  such  times  one  can  approach  very  near  with  a 
little  caution,  and  attend,  as  it  were,  a  crow  caucus. 
Though  I  have  attended  a  great  many,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  find  any  real  cause  for  the  excitement. 
Those  nearest  the  owl  sit  about  in  the  trees  cawing 
vociferously ;  not  a  crow  is  silent.  Those  on  the 
outskirts  are  flying  rapidly  about  and  making,  if  pos- 
sible, more  noise  than  the  inner  ring.  The  owl  mean- 
while sits  blinking  and  staring,  out  of  sight  in  the 
green  top.  Every  moment  two  or  three  crows  leave 
the  ring  to  fly  up  close  and  peep  in,  and  then  go 


104  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

screaming  back  again,  hopping  about  on  their  perches, 
cawing  at  every  breath,  nodding  their  heads,  striking 
the  branches,  and  acting  for  all  the  world  like  excited 
stump  speakers. 

The  din  grows  louder  and  louder;  fresh  voices  are 
coming  in  every  minute ;  and  the  ov/1,  wondering  in 
some  vague  way  if  he  is  the  cause  of  it  all,  flies  off  to 
some  other  tree  where  he  can  be  quiet  and  go  to  sleep. 
Then,  with  a  great  rush  and  clatter,  the  crows  follow, 
some  swift  old  scout  keeping  close  to  the  owl  and 
screaming  all  the  way  to  guide  the  whole  cawing 
rabble.  When  the  owl  stops  they  gather  round  again 
and  go  through  the  same  performance  more  excitedly 
than  before.  So  it  continues  till  the  owl  finds  some 
hollow  tree  and  goes  in  out  of  sight,  leaving  them  to 
caw  themselves  tired  ;  or  else  he  finds  some  dense 
pine  grove,  and  doubles  about  here  and  there,  with 
that  shadowy  noiseless  flight  of  his,  till  he  has  thrown 
them  off  the  track.  Then  he  flies  into  the  thickest 
tree  he  can  find,  generally  outside  the  grove  where 
the  crows  are  looking,  and  sitting  close  up  against 
the  trunk  blinks  his  great  yellow  eyes  and  listens 
to  the  racket  that  goes  sweeping  through  the  grove, 
peering  curiously  into  every  thick  pine,  searching 
everywhere  for  the  lost  excitement. 

The  crows  give  him  up  reluctantly.  They  circle 
for  a  few  minutes  over  the  grove,  rising  and  falling 


Crow -Ways.  105 

with  that  beautiful,  regular  motion  that  seems  like  the 
practice  drill  of  all  gregarious  birds,  and  generally  end 
by  collecting  in  some  tree  at  a  distance  and  hawing 
about  it  for  hours,  till  some  new  excitement  calls 
them  elsewhere. 

Just  why  they  grow  so  excited  over  an  owl  is  an 
open  question.  I  have  never  seen  them  molest  him, 
nor  show  any  tendency  other  than  to  stare  at  him 
occasionally  and  make  a  great  noise  about  it.  That 
they  recognize  him  as  a  thief  and  cannibal  I  have  no 
doubt.  But  he  thieves  by  night  when  other  birds  are 
abed,  and  as  they  practise  their  own  thieving  by  open 
daylight,  it  may  be  that  they  are  denouncing  him  as 
an  impostor.  Or  it  may  be  that  the  owl  in  his  nightly 
prowlings  sometimes  snatches  a  young  crow  off  the 
roost.  The  great  horned  owl  would  hardly  hesitate 
to  eat  an  old  crow  if  he  could  catch  him  napping; 
and  so  they  grow  excited,  as  all  birds  do  in  the  pres- 
ence of  their  natural  enemies.  They  make  much  the 
same  kind  of  a  fuss  over  a  hawk,  though  the  latter 
easily  escapes  the  annoyance  by  flying  swiftly  away, 
or  by  circling  slowly  upward  to  a  height  so  dizzy  that 
the  crows  dare  not  follow. 

In  the  early  spring  I  have  utilized  this  habit  of  the 
crows  in  my  search  for  owls'  nests.  The  crows  are 
much  more  apt  to  discover  its  whereabouts  than  the 
most  careful  ornithologist,  and  they  gather  about  it 


io6  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

frequently  for  a  little  excitement.  Once  I  utilized  the 
habit  for  getting  a  good  look  at  the  crows  themselves. 
I  carried  out  an  old  stuffed  owl,  and  set  it  up  on  a 
pole  close  against  a  great  pine  tree  on  the  edge  of  a 
grove.  Then  I  lay  down  in  a  thick  clump  of  bushes 
near  by  and  cawed  excitedly.  The  first  messenger 
from  the  flock  flew  straight  over  without  making  any 
discoveries.  The  second  one  found  the  owl,  and  I  had 
no  need  for  further  calling.  Haw!  haw!  he  cried 
deep  down  in  his  throat  —  here  he  is  /  here 's  the  rascal ! 
In  a  moment  he  had  the  whole  flock  there ;  and  for 
nearly  ten  minutes  they  kept  coming  in  from  every 
direction.  A  more  frenzied  lot  I  never  saw.  The 
hawing  was  tremendous,  and  I  hoped  to  settle  at  last 
the  real  cause  and  outcome  of  the  excitement,  when 
an  old  crow  flying  close  over  my  hiding  place  caught 
sight  of  me  looking  out  through  the  bushes.  How 
he  made  himself  heard  or  understood  in  the  din  I  do 
not  know ;  but  the  crow  is  never  too  excited  to  heed 
a  danger  note.  The  next  moment  the  whole  flock 
were  streaming  away  across  the  woods,  giving  the 
scatter-cry  at  every  flap. 

There  is  another  way  in  which  the  crows'  love  of 
variety  is  manifest,  though  in  a  much  more  dignified 
way.  Occasionally  a  flock  may  be  surprised  sitting 
about  in  the  trees,  deeply  absorbed  in  watching  a  per- 
formance—  generally  operatic  —  by  one  of  their  num- 


Crow  -  Ways.  107 

her.  The  crow's  chief  note  is  the  hoarse  haw,  haw 
with  which  everybody  is  familiar,  and  which  seems 
capable  of  expressing  everything,  from  the  soft  chatter 
of  going  to  bed  in  the  pine  tops  to  the  loud  deri- 
sion with  which  he  detects  all  ordinary  attempts  to 
surprise  him.  Certain  crows,  however,  have  unusual 
vocal  abilities,  and  at  times  they  seem  to  use  them 
for  .the  entertainment  of  the  others.  Yet  I  suspect 
that  these  vocal  gifts  are  seldom  used,  or  even  discov- 
ered, until  lack  of  amusement  throws  them  upon  their 
own  resources.  Certain  it  is  that,  whenever  a  crow 
makes  any  unusual  sounds,  there  are  always  several 
more  about,  hawing  vigorously,  yet  seeming  to  listen 
attentively.  I  have  caught  them  at  this  a  score  of 
times. 

One  September  afternoon,  while  walking  quietly 
through  the  woods,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  an 
unusual  sound  coming  from  an  oak  grove,  a  favorite 
haunt  of  gray  squirrels.  The  crows  were  cawing  in 
the  same  direction ;  but  every  few  minutes  would 
come  a  strange  cracking  sound  —  c-r-r-rack-a-rack-rack, 
as  if  some  one  had  a  giant  nutcracker  and  were  snap- 
ping it  rapidly.  I  stole  forward  through  the  low  woods 
till  I  could  see  perhaps  fifty  crows  perched  about  in 
the  oaks,  all  very  attentive  to  something  going  on 
below  them  that  I  could  not  see. 

Not  till  I  had  crawled  up  to  the  brush  fence,  on  the 


IO8  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

very  edge  of  the  grove,  and  peeked  through  did  I  see 
the  performer.  Out  on  the  end  of  a  long  delicate 
branch,  a  few  feet  above  the  ground,  a  small  crow  was 
clinging,  swaying  up  and  down  like  a  bobolink  on  a 
cardinal  flower,  balancing  himself  gracefully  by  spread- 
ing his  wings,  and  every  few  minutes  giving  the  strange 
cracking  sound,  accompanied  by  a  flirt  of  his  wings 
and  tail  as  the  branch  swayed  upward.  At  every 
repetition  the  crows  hawed  in  applause.  I  watched 
them  fully  ten  minutes  before  they  saw  me  and  flew 
away. 

Several  times  since,  I  have  been  attracted  by  unu- 
sual sounds,  and  have  surprised  a  flock  of  crows  which 
were  evidently  watching  a  performance  by  one  of  their 
number.  Once  it  was  a  deep  musical  whistle,  much 
like  the  too-loo-loo  of  the  blue  jay  (who  is  the  crow's 
cousin,  for  all  his  bright  colors),  but  deeper  and  fuller, 
and  without  the  trill  that  always  marks  the  blue  jay's 
whistle.  Once,  in  some  big  woods  in  Maine,  it  was 
a  hoarse  bark,  utterly  unlike  a  bird  call,  which  made 
me  slip  heavy  shells  into  my  gun  and  creep  forward, 
expecting  some  strange  beast  that  I  had  never  before 
met. 

The  same  love  of  variety  and  excitement  leads  the 
crow  to  investigate  any  unusual  sight  or  sound  that 
catches  his  attention.  Hide  anywhere  in  the  woods, 
and  make  any  queer  sound  you  will — play  a  jews'-harp, 


Crow  -  Ways.  1 09 

or  pull  a  devil's  fiddle,  or  just  call  softly  —  and  first 
comes  a  blue  jay,  all  agog  to  find  out  all  about  it. 
Next  a  red  squirrel  steals  down  and  barks  just  over 
your  head,  to  make  you  start  if  possible.  Then,  if 
your  eyes  are  sharp,  you  will  see  a  crow  gliding  from 
thicket  to  thicket,  keeping  out  of  sight  as  much  as 
possible,  but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  investigate 
the  unusual  sound.  And  if  he  is  suspicious  or  unsat- 
isfied, he  will  hide  and  wait  patiently  for  you  to  come 
out  and  show  yourself. 

Not  only  is  he  curious  about  you,  and  watches  you 
as  you  go  about  the  woods,  but  he  watches  his  neigh- 
bors as  well.  When  a  fox  is  started  you  can  often 
trace  his  course,  far  ahead  of  your  dogs,  by  the  crows 
circling  over  him  and  calling  rascal,  rascal,  when- 
ever he  shows  himself.  He  watches  the  ducks  and 
plover,  the  deer  and  bear ;  he  knows  where  they  are, 
and  what  they  are  doing ;  and  he  will  go  far  out  of  his 
way  to  warn  them,  as  well  as  his  own  kind,  at  the 
approach  of  danger.  When  birds  nest,  or  foxes  den, 
or  beasts  fight  in  the  woods,  he  is  there  to  see  it. 
When  other  things  fail  he  will  even  play  jokes,  as 
upon  one  occasion  when  I  saw  a  young  crow  hide  in 
a  hole  in  a  pine  tree,  and  for  two  hours  keep  a  whole 
flock  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement  by  his  distressed  caw- 
ing. He  would  venture  out  when  they  were  at  a 
distance,  peek  all  about  cautiously  to  see  that  no  one 


IIO  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

saw  him,  then  set  up  a  heart-rending  appeal,  only  to 
dodge  back  out  of  sight  when  the  flock  came  rushing 
in  with  a  clamor  that  was  deafening. 

Only  one  of  two  explanations  can  account  for  his 
action  in  this  case;  either  he  was  a  young  crow  who 
did  not  appreciate  the  gravity  of  crying  wolf,  wolf ! 
when  there  was  no  wolf,  or  else  it  was  a  plain  game 
of  hide-and-seek.  When  the  crows  at  length  found 
him  they  chased  him  out  of  sight,  either  to  chastise 
him,  or,  as  I  am  inclined  now  to  think,  each  one 
sought  to  catch  him  for  the  privilege  of  being  the 
next  to  hide. 

In  fact,  whenever  one  hears  a  flock  of  crows  haw- 
ing away  in  the  woods,  he  may  be  sure  that  some 
excitement  is  afoot  that  will  well  repay  his  time  and 
patience  to  investigate. 


Since  the  above  article  was  written,  some  more 
curious  crow-ways  have  come  -to  light.  Here  is  one 
which  seems  to  throw  light  on  the  question  of  their 
playing  games.  I  found  it  out  one  afternoon  last 
September,  when  a  vigorous  cawing  over  in  the 
woods  induced  me  to  leave  the  orchard,  where  I  was 
picking  apples,  for  the  more  exciting  occupation  of 
spying  on  my  dark  neighbors. 

The  clamor  came  from  an  old  deserted  pasture, 


Crow -Ways.  ill 

bounded  on  three  sides  by  pine  woods,  and  on  the 
fourth  by  half  wild  fields  that  straggled  away  to  the 
dusty  road  beyond.  Once,  long  ago,  there  was  a 
farm  there ;  but  even  the  cellars  have  disappeared, 
and  the  crows  no  longer  fear  the  place. 

It  was  an  easy  task  to  creep  unobserved  through 
the  nearest  pine  grove,  and  gain  a  safe  hiding  place 
under  some  junipers  on  the  edge  of  the  old  pasture. 
The  cawing  meanwhile  was  intermittent ;  at  times  it 
broke  out  in  a  perfect  babel,  as  if  every  crow  were 
doing  his  best  to  outcaw  all  the  others ;  again  there 
was  silence  save  for  an  occasional  short  note,  the 
all 's  well  of  the  sentinel  on  guard.  The  crows  are 
never  so  busy  or  so  interested  that  they  neglect  this 
precaution. 

When  I  reached  the  junipers,  the  crows  —  half  a 
hundred  of  them  —  were  ranged  in  the  pine  tops 
along  one  edge  of  the  open.  They  were  quiet  enough, 
save  for  an  occasional  scramble  for  position,  evidently 
waiting  for  something  to  happen.  Down  on  my 
right,  on  the  fourth  or  open  side  of  the  pasture,  a 
solitary  old  crow  was  perched  in  the  top  of  a  tall 
hickory.  I  might  have  taken  him  for  a  sentry  but 
for  a  bright  object  which  he  held  in  his  beak.  It 
was  too  far  to  make  out  what  the  object  was ;  but 
whenever  he  turned  his  head  it  flashed  in  the  sun- 
light like  a  bit  of  glass. 


112  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

As  I  watched  him  curiously  he  launched  himself 
into  the  air  and  came  speeding  down  the  center  of 
the  field,  making  for  the  pines  at  the  opposite  end. 
Instantly  every  crow  was  on  the  wing ;  they  shot  out 
from  both  sides,  many  that  I  had  not  seen  b.efore, 
all  cawing  like  mad.  They  rushed  upon  the  old 
fellow  from  the  hickory,  and  for  a  few  moments  it 
was  impossible  to  make  out  anything  except  a  whirl- 
ing, diving  rush  of  black  wings.  The  din  meanwhile 
was  deafening. 

Something  bright  dropped  from  the  excited  flock, 
and  a  single  crow  swooped  after  it ;  but  I  was  too 
much  interested  in  the  rush  to  note  what  became  of 
him.  The  clamor  ceased  abruptly.  The  crows,  after 
a  short  practice  in  rising,  falling,  and  wheeling  to 
command,  settled  in  the  pines  on  both  sides  of  the 
field,  where  they  had  been  before.  And  there  in 
the  hickory  was  another  crow  with  the  same  bright, 
flashing  thing  in  his  beak. 

There  was  a  long  wait  this  time,  as  if  for  a  breath- 
ing spell.  Then  the  solitary  crow  came  skimming 
down  the  field  again  without  warning.  The  flock 
surrounded  him  on  the  moment,  with  the  evident 
intention  of  hindering  his  flight  as  much  as  possible. 
They  flapped  their  wings  in  his  face ;  they  zig-zagged 
in  front  of  him ;  they  attempted  to  light  on  his  back. 
In  vain  he  twisted  and  dodged  and  dropped  like 


Crow -Ways. 


a  stone.     Wherever  he  turned 
he  found  fluttering  wings  to  op- 
pose his  flight.     The  first  object  of 
the  game  was  apparent :  he  was  try- 
ing to  reach  the  goal  of  pines  op-      T 
posite  the  hickory,  and  the  others 
were  trying  to  prevent  it.     Again 
and  again  the  leader  was  lost  to 


n* 


sight ;  but  whenever  the  sun-  * 

light  flashed  from  the  bright 

thing  he  carried,  he 

was    certain   to  be 

found   in   the   very 

midst  of  a  clamoring 

crowd.     Then  the  second  object  was  clear:  the  crows 

were    trying   to    confuse    him    and    make    him   drop 

the  talisman. 


114  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

They  circled  rapidly  down  the  field  and  back 
again,  near  the  watcher.  Suddenly  the  bright  thing 
dropped,  reaching  the  ground  before  it  was  discov- 
ered. Three  or  four  crows  swooped  upon  it,  and 
a  lively  scrimmage  began  for  its  possession.  In  the 
midst  of  the  struggle  a  small  crow  shot  under  the 
contestants,  and  before  they  knew  what  was  up  he 
was  scurrying  away  to  the  hickory  with  the  coveted 
trinket  held  as  high  as  he  could  carry  it,  as  if  in 
triumph  at  his  sharp  trick. 

The  flock  settled  slowly  into  the  pines  again  with 
much  hawing.  There  was  evidently  a  question  whether 
the  play  ought  to  be  allowed  or  not.  Everybody  had 
something  to  say  about  it ;  and  there  was  no  end  of 
objection.  At  last  it  was  settled  good-naturedly,  and 
they  took  places  to  watch  till  the  new  leader  should 
give  them  opportunity  for  another  chase. 

There  was  no  doubt  left  in  the  watcher's  mind  by 
this  time  as  to  what  the  crows  were  doing.  They 
were  just  playing  a  game,  like  so  many  schoolboys, 
enjoying  to  the  full  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  Sep- 
tember afternoon.  Did  they  find  the  bright  object  as 
they  crossed  the  pasture  on  the  way  from  Farmer  B's 
corn-field,  and  the  game  so  suggest  itself  ?  Or  was  the 
game  first  suggested,  and  the  talisman  brought  after- 
wards ?,  Every  crow  has  a  secret  storehouse,  where 
he  hides  every  bright  thing  he  finds.  Sometimes  it 


Crow  -  Ways.  115 

is  a  crevice  in  the  rocks  under  moss  and  ferns ;  some- 
times the  splintered  end  of  a  broken  branch ;  some- 
times a  deserted  owl's  nest  in  a  hollow  tree ;  often 
a  crotch  in  a  big  pine,  covered  carefully  by  brown 
needles ;  but  wherever  it  is,  it  is  full  of  bright  things  — 
glass,  and  china,  and  beads,  and  tin,  and  an  old  spoon, 
and  a  silvered  buckle  —  and  nobody  but  the  crow 
himself  knows  how  to  find  it.  Did  some  crow  fetch 
his  best  trinket  for  the  occasion,  or  was  this  a  special 
thing  for  games,  and  kept  by  the  flock  where  any  crow 
could  get  it  ? 

These  were  some  of  the  interesting  things  that  were 
puzzling  the  watcher  when  he  noticed  that  the  hickory 
was  empty.  A  flash  over  against  the  dark  green  re- 
vealed the  leader.  There  he  was,  stealing  along  in 
the  shadow,  trying  to  reach  the  goal  before  they  saw 
him.  A  derisive  haw  announced  his  discovery.  Then 
the  fun  began  again,  as  noisy,  as  confusing,  as  thor- 
oughly enjoyable  as  ever. 

When  the  bright  object  dropped  this  time,  curiosity 
to  get  possession  of  it  was  stronger  than  my  interest 
in  the  game.  Besides,  the  apples  were  waiting.  I 
jumped  up,  scattering  the  crows  in  wild  confusion; 
but  as  they  streamed  away  I  fancied  that  there  was 
still  more  of  the  excitement  of  play  than  of  alarm  in 
their  flight  and  clamor. 

The  bright  object  which  the  leader  carried  proved 


1 1 6  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

to  be  the  handle  of  a  glass  cup  or  pitcher.  A  frag- 
ment of  the  vessel  itself  had  broken  off  with  the  han- 
dle, so  that  the  ring  was  complete.  Altogether  it  was 
just  the  thing  for  the  purpose — bright,  and  not  too 
heavy,  and  most  convenient  for  a  crow  to  seize  and 
carry.  Once  well  gripped,  it  would  take  a  good  deal 
of  worrying  to  make  him  drop  it. 

Who  first  was  "  it,"  as  children  say  in  games  ? 
Was  it  a  special  privilege  of  the  crow  who  first  found 
the  talisman,  or  do  the  crows  have  some  way  of  count- 
ing out  for  the  first  leader  ?  There  is  a  school-house 
down  that  same  old  dusty  road.  Sometimes,  when  at 
play  there,  I  used  to  notice  the  crows  stealing  silently 
from  tree  to  tree  in  the  woods  beyond,  watching  our 
play,  I  have  no  doubt,  as  I  now  had  watched  theirs. 
Only  we  have  grown  older,  and  forgotten  how  to  play  ; 
and  they  are  as  much  boys  as  ever.  Did  they  learn 
their  game  from  watching  us  at  tag,  I  wonder  ?  And 
do  they  know  coram,  and  leave-stocks,  and  prisoners' 
base,  and  bull-in-the-ring  as  well  ?  One  could  easily 
believe  their  wise  little  black  heads  to  be  capable  of 
any  imitation,  especially  if  one  had  watched  them  a 
few  times,  at  work  and  play,  when  they  had  no  idea 
they  were  being  spied  upon. 


VIII.     ONE    TOUCH    OF    NATURE. 


HE  cheery  whistle  of  a  quail 
recalls  to  most  New  Eng- 
land people  a  vision  of  breezy 
upland  pastures  and  a  mot- 
tled brown  bird  calling  me- 
lodiously from  the  topmost 
slanting  rail  of  an  old  sheep- 
fence.  Farmers  say  he  fore- 
tells the  weather,  calling, 
More-wet  —  much-more-wet ! 
Boys  say  he  only  proclaims 
his  name,  Bob  White !  I'm 
Bob  White!  But  whether 

he  prognosticates  or  introduces  himself,  his  voice  is 
always  a  welcome  one.  Those  who  know  the  call 
listen  with  pleasure,  and  speedily  come  to  love  the 
bird  that  makes  it. 

Bob  White  has  another  call,  more  beautiful  than  his 
boyish  whistle,  which  comparatively  few  have  heard. 
It  is  a  soft  liquid  yodeling,  which  the  male  bird  uses 
to  call  the  scattered  flock  together.  One  who  walks 


117 


Ii8  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

in  the  woods  at  sunset  sometimes  hears  it  from  a  tan- 
gle of  grapevine  and  bullbrier.  If  he  has  the  patience 
to  push  his  way  carefully  through  the  underbrush,  he 
may  see  the  beautiful  Bob  on  a  rock  or  stump,  utter- 
ing the  softest  and  most  musical  of  whistles.  He  is 
telling  his  flock  that  here  is  a  nice  place  he  has  found, 
where  they  can  spend  the  night  and  be  safe  from  owls 
and  prowling  foxes. 

If  the  visitor  be  very  patient,  and  lie  still,  he  will 
presently  hear  the  pattering  of  tiny  feet  on  the  leaves, 
and  see  the  brown  birds  come  running  in  from  every 
direction.  Once  in  a  lifetime,  perhaps,  he  may  see 
them  gather  in  a  close  circle  —  tails  together,  heads 
out,  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  and  so  go  to  sleep  for 
the  night.  Their  soft  whistlings  and  chirpings  at  such 
times  form  the  most  delightful  sound  one  ever  hears 
in  the  woods. 

This  call  of  the  male  bird  is  not  difficult  to  imitate. 
Hunters  who  know  the  birds  will  occasionally  use  it  to 
call  a  scattered  covey  together,  or  to  locate  the  male 
birds,  which  generally  answer  the  leader's  call.  I  have 
frequently  called  a  flock  of  the  birds  into  a  thicket  at 
sunset,  and  caught  running  glimpses  of  them  as  they 
hurried  about,  looking  for  the  bugler  who  called  taps. 

All  this  occurred  to  me  late  one  afternoon  in  the 
great  Zoological  Gardens  at  Antwerp.  I  was  watch- 
ing a  yard  of  birds  —  three  or  four  hundred  represent- 


One   Touch  of  Nature.  1 1 9 

atives  of  the  pheasant  family  from  all  over  the  earth 
that  were  running  about  among  the  rocks  and  artificial 
copses.  Some  were  almost  as  wild  as  if  in  their  native 
woods,  especially  the  smaller  birds  in  the  trees  ;  others 
had  grown  tame  from  being  constantly  fed  by  visitors. 

It  was  rather  confusing  to  a  bird  lover,  familiar  only 
with  home  birds,  to  see  all  the  strange  forms  and 
colors  in  the  grass,  and  to  hear  a  chorus  of  unknown 
notes  from  trees  and  underbrush.  But  suddenly  there 
was  a  touch  of  naturalness.  That  beautiful  brown 
bird  with  the  shapely  body  and  the  quick,  nervous  run  ! 
No  one  could  mistake  him ;  it  was  Bob  White.  And 
with  him  came  a  flash  of  the  dear  New  England 
landscape  three  thousand  miles  away.  Another  and 
another  showed  himself  and  was  gone.  Then  I  thought 
of  the  woods  at  sunset,  and  began  to  call  softly. 

The  carnivora  were  being  fed  not  far  away ;  a  fright- 
ful uproar  came  from  the  cages.  The  coughing  roar  of 
a  male  lion  made  the  air  shiver.  Cockatoos  screamed  ; 
noisy  parrots  squawked  hideously.  Children  were 
playing  and  shouting  near  by.  In  the  yard  itself  fifty 
birds  were  singing  or  crying  strange  notes.  Besides 
all  this,  the  quail  I  had  seen  had  been  hatched  far 
from  home,  under  a  strange  mother.  So  I  had  little 
hope  of  success. 

But  as  the  call  grew  louder  and  louder,  a  liquid 
yodel  came  like  an  electric  shock  from  a  clump  of 


I2O  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

bushes  on  the  left.  There  he  was,  looking,  listening. 
Another  call,  and  he  came  running  toward  me. 
Others  appeared  from  every  direction,  and  soon  a 
score  of  quail  were  running  about,  just  inside  the 
screen,  with  soft  gurglings  like  a  hidden  brook,  doubly 
delightful  to  an  ear  that  had  longed  to  hear  them. 

City,  gardens,  beasts,  strangers,  —  all  vanished  in  an 
instant.  I  was  a  boy  in  the  fields  again.  The  rough 
New  England  hillside  grew  tender  and  beautiful  in 
sunset  light ;  the  hollows  were  rich  in  autumn  glory. 
The  pasture  brook  sang  on  its  way  to  the  river;  a 
robin  called  from  a  crimson  maple;  and  all  around 
was  the  dear  low,  thrilling  whistle,  and  the  patter  of 
welcome  feet  on  leaves,  as  Bob  White  came  running 
again  to  meet  his  countryman. 


MOOSE    CALLING. 

IDNIGHT  in  the  wilderness. 
The  belated  moon  wheels 
slowly  above  the  eastern  ridge, 
where  for  a  few  minutes  past 
a  mighty  pine  and  hundreds  of 
pointed  spruce  tops  have  been 
standing  out  in  inky  blackness 
against  the  gray  and  brightening  background.  The 
silver  light  steals  swiftly  down  the  evergreen  tops, 
sending  long  black  shadows  creeping  before  it,  and 
falls  glistening  and  shimmering  across  the  sleeping 
waters  of  a  forest  lake.  No  ripple  breaks  its  polished 
surface ;  no  plash  of  musquash  or  leaping  trout  sends 
its  vibrations  up  into  the  still,  frosty  air ;  no  sound  of 
beast  or  bird  awakens  the  echoes  of  the  silent  forest. 
Nature  seems  dying,  her  life  frozen  out  of  her  by  the 
chill  of  the  October  night ;  and  no  voice  tells  of  her 
suffering. 

A  moment  ago  the  little  lake  lay  all  black  and 
uniform,  like  a  great  well  among  the  hills,  with  only 
glimmering  star-points  to  reveal  its  surface.  Now, 


122  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

down  in  a  bay  below  a  grassy  point,  where  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  eastern  shore  reach  almost  across,  a 
dark  object  is  lying  silent  and  motionless  on  the  lake. 
Its  side  seems  gray  and  uncertain  above  the  water ; 
at  either  end  is  a  dark  mass,  that  in  the  increasing 
light  takes  the  form  of  human  head  and  shoulders. 
A  bark  canoe  with  two  occupants  is  before  us;  but 
so  still,  so  lifeless  apparently,  that  till  now  we  thought 
it  part  of  the  shore  beyond. 

There  is  a  movement  in  the  stern  ;  the  pro- 
found stillness  is  suddenly  broken  by  a  frightful 
roar :  M-wah-uh  !  M-waah-uh  !  M-w-wd^a-li-d^a  /  The 
echoes  rouse  themselves  swiftly,  and  rush  away  con- 
fused and  broken,  to  and  fro  across  the  lake.  As 
they  die  away  among  the  hills  there  is  a  sound  from 
the  canoe  as  if  an  animal  were  walking  in  shallow 
water,  splash,  splash,  splash,  klop  !  then  silence  again, 
that  is  not  dead,  but  listening. 

A  half-hour  passes ;  but  not  for  an  instant  does 
the  listening  tension  of  the  lake  relax.  Then  the 
loud  bellow  rings  out  again,  startling  us  and  the 
echoes,  though  we  were  listening  for  it.  This  time 
the  tension  increases  an  hundredfold;  every  nerve 
is  strained ;  every  muscle  ready.  Hardly  have  the 
echoes  been  lost  when  from  far  up  the  ridges  comes 
a  deep,  sudden,  ugly  roar  that  penetrates  the  woods 
like  a  rifle-shot.  Again  it  comes,  and  nearer!  Down 


Moose  Calling.  123 

in  the  canoe  a  paddle  blade  touches  the  water  noise- 
lessly from  the  stern ;  and  over  the  bow  there  is  the 
glint  of  moonlight  on  a  rifle  barrel.  The  roar  is  now 
continuous  on  the  summit  of  the  last  low  ridge. 
Twigs  crackle,  and  branches  snap.  There  is  the 
thrashing  of  mighty  antlers  among  the  underbrush, 
the  pounding  of  heavy  hoofs  upon  the  earth ;  and 
straight  down  the  great  bull  rushes  like  a  tempest, 
nearer,  nearer,  till  he  bursts  with  tremendous  crash 
through  the  last  fringe  of  alders  out  onto  the  grassy 
point.  —  And  then  the  heavy  boom  of  a  rifle  rolling 
across  the  startled  lake. 

Such  is  moose  calling,  in  one  of  its  phases  —  the 
most  exciting,  the  most  disappointing,  the  most  try- 
ing way  of  hunting  this  noble  game. 

The  call  of  the  cow  moose,  which  the  hunter  always 
uses  at  first,  is  a  low,  sudden  bellow,  quite  impossible 
to  describe  accurately.  Before  ever  hearing  it,  I  had 
frequently  asked  Indians  and  hunters  what  it  was  like. 
The  answers  were  rather  unsatisfactory.  "  Like  a 
tree  falling,"  said  one.  "  Like  the  sudden  swell  of  a 
cataract  or  the  rapids  at  night,"  said  another.  "  Like 
a  rifle-shot,  or  a  man  shouting  hoarsely,"  said  a  third ; 
and  so  on  till  like  a  menagerie  at  feeding  time  was 
my  idea  of  it. 

One  night  as  I  sat  with  my  friend  at  the  door  of 
our  bark  tent,  eating  our  belated  supper  in  tired 


I  24  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

silence,  while  the  rush  of  the  salmon  pool  near  and 
the  sigh  of  the  night  wind  in  the  spruces  were  lulling 
us  to  sleep  as  we  ate,  a  sound  suddenly  filled  the 
forest,  and  was  gone.  Strangely  enough,  we  pro- 
nounced the  word  moose  together,  though  neither 
of  us  had  ever  heard  the  sound  before.  'Like  a 
gun  in  a  fog '  would  describe  the  sound  to  me  better 
than  anything  else,  though  after  hearing  it  many 
times  the  simile  is  not  at  all  accurate.  This  first 
indefinite  sound  is  heard  early  in  the  season.  Later 
it  is  prolonged  and  more  definite,  and  often  repeated 
as  I  have  given  it. 

The  answer  of  the  bull  varies  but  little.  It  is  a 
short,  hoarse,  grunting  roar,  frightfully  ugly  when 
close  at  hand,  and  leaving  no  doubt  as  to  the  mood 
he  is  in.  Sometimes  when  a  bull  is  shy,  and  the 
hunter  thinks  he  is  near  and  listening,  though  no 
sound  gives  any  idea  of  his  whereabouts,  he  follows 
the  bellow  of  the  cow  by  the  short  roar  of  the  bull, 
at  the  same  time  snapping  the  sticks  under  his  feet, 
and  thrashing  the  bushes  with  a  club.  Then,  if  the 
bull  answers,  look  out.  Jealous,  and  fighting  mad, 
he  hurls  himself  out  of  his  concealment  and  rushes 
straight  in  to  meet  his  rival.  Once  aroused  in  this  way 
he  heeds  no  danger,  and  the  eye  must  be  clear  and 
the  muscles  steady  to  stop  him  surely  ere  he  reaches 
the  thicket  where  the  hunter  is  concealed.  Moon- 


Moose  Calling.  125 

light  is  poor  stuff  to  shoot  by  at  best,  and  an  enraged 
bull  moose  is  a  very  big  and  a  very  ugly  customer. 
It  is  a  poor  thicket,  therefore,  that  does  not  have  at 
least  one  good  tree  with  conveniently  low  branches. 
As  a  rule,  however,  you  may  trust  your  Indian,  who 
is  an  arrant  coward,  to  look  out  for  this  very  carefully. 

The  trumpet  with  which  the  calling  is  done  is 
simply  a  piece  of  birch  bark,  rolled  up  cone-shaped 
with  the  smooth  side  within.  It  is  fifteen  or  sixteen 
inches  long,  about  four  inches  in  diameter  at  the 
larger,  and  one  inch  at  the  smaller  end.  The  right 
hand  is  folded  round  the  smaller  end  for  a  mouth- 
piece ;  into  this  the  caller  grunts  and  roars  and 
bellows,  at  the  same  time  swinging  the  trumpet's 
mouth  in  sweeping  curves  to  imitate  the  peculiar 
quaver  of  the  cow's  call.  If  the  bull  is  near  and 
suspicious,  the  sound  is  deadened  by  holding  the 
mouth  of  the  trumpet  close  to  the  ground.  This, 
to  me,  imitates  the  real  sound  more  accurately  than 
any  other  attempt. 

So  many  conditions  must  be  met  at  once  for  suc- 
cessful calling,  and  so  warily  does  a  bull  approach, 
that  the  chances  are  always  strongly  against  the 
hunter's  seeing  his  game.  The  old  bulls  are  shy  from 
much  hunting;  the  younger  ones  fear  the  wrath  of 
an  older  rival.  It  is  only  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  far 
back  from  civilization,  where  the  moose  have  not 


1 26  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

been  hunted,  that  one's  call  is  swiftly  answered  by 
a  savage  old  bull  that  knows  no  fear.  Here  one  is 
never  sure  what  response  his  call  will  bring ;  and  the 
spice  of  excitement,  and  perhaps  danger,  is  added  to 
the  sport. 

In  illustration  of  the  uncertainty  of  calling,  the 
writer  recalls  with  considerable  pride  his  first  attempt, 
which  was  somewhat  startling  in  its  success.  It  was 
on  a  lake,  far  back  from  the  settlements,  in  north- 
ern New  Brunswick.  One  evening,  late  in  August, 
while  returning  from  fishing,  I  heard  the  bellow 
of  a  cow  moose  on  a  hardwood  ridge  above  me. 
Along  the  base  of  the  ridge  stretched  a  bay  with 
grassy  shores,  very  narrow  where  it  entered  the  lake, 
but  broadening  out  to  fifty  yards  across,  and  reaching 
back  half  a  mile  to  meet  a  stream  that  came  down 
from  a  smaller  lake  among  the  hills.  All  this  I 
noted  carefully  while  gliding  past ;  for  it  struck  me 
as  an  ideal  place  for  moose  calling,  if  one  were 
hunting. 

The  next  evening,  while  fishing  alone  in  the  cold 
stream  referred  to,  I  heard  the  moose  again  on  the 
same  ridge ;  and  in  a  sudden  spirit  of  curiosity  deter- 
mined to  try  the  effect  of  a  roar  or  two  on  her,  in 
imitation  of  an  old  bull.  I  had  never  heard  of  a  cow 
answering  the  call ;  and  I  had  no  suspicion  then  that 
the  bull  was  anywhere  near.  I  was  not  an  expert 


Moose  Calling.  127 

caller.  Under  tuition  of  my  Indian  (who  was  him- 
self a  rather  poor  hand  at  it)  I  had  practised  two  or 
three  times  till  he  told  me,  with  charming  frankness, 
that  possibly  a  man  might  mistake  me  for  a  moose, 
if  he  had  n't  heard  one  very  often.  So  here  was  a 
chance  for  more  practice  and  a  bit  of  variety.  If  it 
frightened  her  it  would  do  no  harm,  as  we  were  not 
hunting. 

Running  the  canoe  quietly  ashore  below  where  the 
moose  had  called,  I  peeled  the  bark  from  a  young 
birch,  rolled  it  into  a  trumpet,  and,  standing  on  the 
grassy  bank,  uttered  the  deep  grunt  of  a  bull  two 
or  three  times  in  quick  succession.  The  effect  was 
tremendous.  From  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  not 
two  hundred  yards  above  where  I  stood,  the  angry 
challenge  of  a  bull  was  hurled  down  upon  me  out 
of  the  woods.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  a  steam  engine 
were  crashing  full  speed  through  the  underbrush. 
In  fewer  seconds  than  it  takes  to  write  it  the  canoe 
was  well  out  into  deep  water,  lying  motionless  with 
the  bow  inshore.  A  moment  later  a  huge  bull  plunged 
through  the  fringe  of  alders  onto  the  open  bank, 
gritting  his  teeth,  grunting,  stamping  the  earth  sav- 
agely, and  thrashing  the  bushes  with  his  great  antlers 
—  as  ugly  a  picture  as  one  would  care  to  meet  in 
the  woods. 

He  seemed  bewildered  at  not  seeing  his  rival,  ran 


128  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

swiftly  along  the  bank,  turned  and  came  swinging 
back  again,  all  the  while  uttering  his  hoarse  challenge. 
Then  the  canoe  swung  in  the  slight  current ;  in  get- 
ting control  of  it  again  the  movement  attracted  his 
attention,  and  he  saw  me  for  the  first  time.  In  a 
moment  he  was  down  the  bank  into  shallow  water, 
striking  with  his  hoofs  and  tossing  his  huge  head 
up  and  down  like  an  angry  bull.  Fortunately  the 
water  was  deep,  and  he  did  not  try  to  swim  out;  for 
there  was  not  a  weapon  of  any  kind  in  the  canoe. 

When  I  started  down  towards  the  lake,  after  bait- 
ing the  bull's  fury  awhile  by  shaking  the  paddle  and 
splashing  water  at  him,  he  followed  me  along  the 
bank,  keeping  up  his  threatening  demonstrations. 
Down  near  the  lake  he  plunged  suddenly  ahead 
before  I  realized  the  danger,  splashed  out  into  the 
narrow  opening  in  front  of  the  canoe  —  and  there  I 
was,  trapped. 

It  was  dark  when  I  at  last  got  out  of  it.  To  get  by 
the  ugly  beast  in  that  narrow  opening  was  out  of  the 
question,  as  I  found  out  after  a  half-hour's  trying. 
Just  at  dusk  I  turned  the  canoe  and  paddled  slowly 
back ;  and  the  moose,  leaving  his  post,  followed  as 
before  along  the  bank.  At  the  upper  side  of  a  little 
bay  I  paddled  close  up  to  shore,  and  waited  till  he 
ran  round,  almost  up  to  me,  before  backing  out  into 
deep  water.  Splashing  seemed  to  madden  the  brute, 


Moose   Calling.  1 29 

so  I  splashed  him,  till  in  his  fury  he  waded  out 
deeper  and  deeper,  to  strike  the  exasperating  canoe 
with  his  antlers.  When  he  would  follow  no  further, 
I  swung  the  canoe  suddenly,  and  headed  for  the 
opening  at  a  racing  stroke.  I  had  a  fair  start  before 
he  understood  the  trick ;  but  I  never  turned  to  see 
how  he  made  the  bank  and  circled  the  little  bay. 
The  splash  and  plunge  of  hoofs  was  fearfully  close 
behind  me  as  the  canoe  shot  through  the  opening; 
and  as  the  little  bark  swung  round  on  the  open  waters 
of  the  lake,  for  a  final  splash  and  flourish  of  the  paddle, 
and  a  yell  or  two  of  derision,  there  stood  the  bull  in 
the  inlet,  still  thrashing  his  antlers  and  gritting  his 
teeth ;  and  there  I  left  him. 

The  season  of  calling  is  a  short  one,  beginning 
early  in  September  and  lasting  till  the  middle  of 
October.  Occasionally  a  bull  will  answer  as  late  as 
November,  but  this  is  unusual.  In  this  season  a  per- 
fectly still  night  is  perhaps  the  first  requisite.  The 
bull,  when  he  hears  the  call,  will  often  approach  to 
within  a  hundred  yards  without  making  a  sound.  It 
is  simply  wonderful  how  still  the  great  brute  can  be 
as  he  moves  slowly  through  the  woods.  Then  he 
makes  a  wide  circuit  till  he  has  gone  completely 
round  the  spot  where  he  heard  the  call;  and  if  there 
is  the  slightest  breeze  blowing  he  scents  the  danger, 
and  is  off  on  the  instant.  On  a  still  night  his  big 


130  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

trumpet-shaped  ears  are  marvelously  acute.  Only 
absolute  silence  on  the  hunter's  part  can  insure 
success. 

Another  condition  quite  as  essential  is  moonlight. 
The  moose  sometimes  calls  just  before  dusk  and  just 
before  sunrise  ;  but  the  bull  is  more  wary  at  such 
times,  and  very  loth  to  show  himself  in  the  open. 
Night  diminishes  his  extreme  caution,  and  unless  he 
has  been  hunted  he  responds  more  readily.  Only  a 
bright  moonlight  can  give  any  accuracy  to  a  rifle- 
shot. To  attempt  it  by  starlight  would  result  simply 
in  frightening  the  game,  or  possibly  running  into 
danger. 

By  far  the  best  place  for  calling,  if  one  is  in  a 
moose  country,  is  from  a  canoe  on  some  quiet  lake 
or  river.  A  spot  is  selected  midway  between  two 
open  shores,  near  together  if  possible.  On  whichever 
side  the  bull  answers,  the  canoe  is  backed  silently 
away  into  the  shadow  against  the  opposite  bank ; 
and  there  the  hunters  crouch  motionless  till  their 
game  shows  himself  clearly  in  the  moonlight  on  the 
open  shore. 

If  there  is  no  water  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
the  hunting  ground,  then  a  thicket  in  the  midst  of  an 
open  spot  is  the  place  to  call.  Such  spots  are  found 
only  about  the  barrens,  which  are  treeless  plains  scat- 
tered here  and  there  throughout  the  great  northern 


Moose  Calling.  131 

wilderness.  The  scattered  thickets  on  such  plains 
are,  without  doubt,  the  islands  of  the  ancient  lakes 
that  once  covered  them.  Here  the  hunter  collects  a 
thick  nest  of  dry  moss  and  fir  tips  at  sundown,  and 
spreads  the  thick  blanket  that  he  has  brought  on  his 
back  all  the  weary  way  from  camp ;  for  without  it 
the  cold  of  the  autumn  night  would  be  unendurable 
to  one  who  can  neither  light  a  fire  nor  move  about  to 
get  warm.  When  a  bull  answers  a  call  from  such  a 
spot  he  will  generally  circle  the  barren,  just  within 
the  edge  of  the  surrounding  forest,  and  unless  enraged 
by  jealousy  will  seldom  venture  far  out  into  the  open. 
This  fearfulness  of  the  open  characterizes  the  moose 
in  all  places  and  seasons.  He  is  a  creature  of  the 
forest,  never  at  ease  unless  within  quick  reach  of  its 
protection. 

An  exciting  incident  happened  to  Mitchell,  my 
Indian  guide,  one  autumn,  while  hunting  on  one  of 
these  barrens  with  a  sportsman  whom  he  was  guiding. 
He  was  moose  calling  one  night  from  a  thicket  near 
the  middle  of  a  narrow  barren.  No  answer  came  to 
his  repeated  calling,  though  for  an  hour  or  more  he 
had  felt  quite  sure  that  a  bull  was  within  hearing, 
somewhere  within  the  dark  fringe  of  forest.  He  was 
about  to  try  the  roar  of  the  bull,  when  it  suddenly 
burst  out  of  the  woods  behind  them,  in  exactly  the 
opposite  quarter  from  that  in  which  they  believed 


132  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

their  game  was  concealed.  Mitchell  started  to  creep 
across  the  thicket,  but  scarcely  had  the  echoes 
answered  when,  in  front  of  them,  a  second  challenge 
sounded  sharp  and  fierce ;  and  they  saw,  directly 
across  the  open,  the  underbrush  at  the  forest's  edge 
sway  violently,  as  the  bull  they  had  long  suspected 
broke  out  in  a  towering  rage.  He  was  slow  in 
advancing,  however,  and  Mitchell  glided  rapidly 
across  the  thicket,  where  a  moment  later  his  excited 
hiss  called  his  companion.  From  the  opposite  fringe 
of  forest  the  second  bull  had  hurled  himself  out,  and 
was  plunging  with  savage  grunts  straight  towards 
them. 

Crouching  low  among  the  firs  they  awaited  his 
headlong  rush  ;  not  without  many  a  startled  glance 
backward,  and  a  very  uncomfortable  sense  of  being 
trapped  and  frightened,  as  Mitchell  confessed  to  me 
afterward.  He  had  left  his  gun  in  camp ;  his  em- 
ployer had  insisted  upon  it,  in  his  eagerness  to  kill 
the  moose  himself. 

The  bull  came  rapidly  within  rifle-shot.  In  a 
minute  more  he  would  be  within  their  hiding  place ; 
and  the  rifle  sight  was  trying  to  cover  a  vital  spot, 
when  right  behind  them  —  at  the  thicket's  edge,  it 
seemed  —  a  frightful  roar  and  a  furious  pounding  of 
hoofs  brought  them  to  their  feet  with  a  bound.  A 
second  later  the  rifle  was  lying  among  the  bushes, 


Moose  Calling.  133 

and  a  panic-stricken  hunter  was  scratching  and  smash- 
ing in  a  desperate  hurry  up  among  the  branches  of 
a  low  spruce,  as  if  only  the  tiptop  were  half  high 
enough.  Mitchell  was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  unless 
one  had  the  eyes  of  an  owl  to  find  him  down  among 
the  roots  of  a  fallen  pine. 

But  the  first  moose  smashed  straight  through  the 
thicket  without  looking  up  or  down ;  and  out  on  the 
open  barren  a  tremendous  struggle  began.  There 
was  a  minute's  confused  uproar,  of  savage  grunts 
and  clashing  antlers  and  pounding  hoofs  and  hoarse, 
labored  breathing ;  then  the  excitement  of  the  fight 
was  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  a  dark  form  wrig- 
gled out  from  among  the  roots,  only  to  stretch  itself 
flat  under  a  bush  and  peer  cautiously  at  the  struggling 
brutes  not  thirty  feet  away.  Twice  Mitchell  hissed 
for  his  employer  to  come  down ;  but  that  worthy  was 
safe  astride  the  highest  branch  that  would  bear  his 
weight,  with  no  desire  evidently  for  a  better  view  of 
the  fight.  Then  Mitchell  found  the  rifle  among  the 
bushes  and,  waiting  till  the  bulls  backed  away  for  one 
of  their  furious  charges,  killed  the  larger  one  in  his 
tracks.  The  second  stood  startled  an  instant,  with 
raised  head  and  muscles  quivering,  then  dashed  away 
across  the  barren  and  into  the  forest. 

Such  encounters  are  often  numbered  among  the 
tragedies  of  the  great  wilderness.  In  tramping 


134  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

through  the  forest  one  sometimes  comes  upon  two 
sets  of  huge  antlers  locked  firmly  together,  and  white 
bones,  picked  clean  by  hungry  prowlers.  It  needs 
no  written  record  to  tell  their  story. 

Once  I  saw  a  duel  that  resulted  differently.  I 
heard  a  terrific  uproar,  and  crept  through  the  woods, 
thinking  to  have  a  savage  wilderness  spectacle  all  to 
myself.  Two  young  bulls  were  fighting  desperately 
in  an  open  glade,  just  because  they  were  strong  and 
proud  of  their  first  big  horns. 

But  I  was  not  alone,  as  I  expected.  A  great  flock 
of  crossbills  swooped  down  into  the  spruces,  and 
stopped  whistling  in  their  astonishment.  A  dozen 
red  squirrels  snickered  and  barked  their  approval, 
as  the  bulls  butted  each  other.  Meeko  is  always 
glad  when  mischief  is  afoot.  High  overhead  floated 
a  rare  woods'  raven,  his  head  bent  sharply  downward 
to  see.  Moose-birds  flitted  in  restless  excitement 
from  tree  to  bush.  Kagax  the  weasel  postponed  his 
bloodthirsty  errand  to  the  young  rabbits.  And  just 
beside  me,  under  the  fir  tips,  Tookhees  the  wood- 
mouse  forgot  his  fear  of  the  owl  and  the  fox  and  his 
hundred  enemies,  and  sat  by  his  den  in  broad  day- 
light, rubbing  his  whiskers  nervously. 

So  we  watched,  till  the  bull  that  was  getting  the 
worst  of  it  backed  near  me,  and  got  my  wind,  and  the 
fight  was  over. 


X.     CH'GEEGEE-LOKH-SIS. 


HAT  is  the  name  which  the  northern 
Indians  give  to  the  black-capped  tit- 
mouse, or  chickadee.  "  Little  friend 
Ch'geegee "  is  what  it  means ;  for  the 
Indians,  like  everybody  else  who  knows 
Chickadee,  are  fond  of  this  cheery  little  brightener  of 
the  northern  woods.  The  first  time  I  asked  Simmo 
what  his  people  called  the  bird,  he  answered  with  a 
smile.  Since  then  I  have  asked  other  Indians,  and 
always  a  smile,  a  pleased  look  lit  up  the  dark  grim 

us 


1 36  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

faces  as  they  told  me.  It  is  another  tribute  to  the 
bright  little  bird's  influence. 

Chickadee  wears  well.  He  is  not  in  the  least  a 
creature  of  moods.  You  step  out  of  your  door  some 
bright  morning,  and  there  he  is  among  the  shrubs, 
flitting  from  twig  to  twig ;  now  hanging  head  down 
from  the  very  tip  to  look  into  a  terminal  bud ;  now 
winding  upward  about  a  branch,  looking  industriously 
into  every  bud  and  crevice.  An  insect  must  hide  well 
to  escape  those  bright  eyes.  He  is  helping  you  raise 
your  plants.  He  looks  up  brightly  as  you  approach, 
hops  fearlessly  down  and  looks  at  you  with  frank, 
innocent  eyes.  Chick  a  dee  dee  dee  dee  !  Tsic  a  de-e-e  ? 
—  this  last  with  a  rising  inflection,  as  if  he  were  ask- 
ing how  you  were,  after  he  had  said  good-morning. 
Then  he  turns  to  his  insect  hunting  again,  for  he 
never  wastes  more  than  a  moment  talking.  But  he 
twitters  sociably  as  he  works. 

You  meet  him  again  in  the  depths  of  the  wilder- 
ness. The  smoke  of  your  camp  fire  has  hardly  risen 
to  the  spruce  tops  when  close  beside  you  sounds  the 
same  cheerful  greeting  and  inquiry  for  your  health. 
There  he  is  on  the  birch  twig,  bright  and  happy  and 
fearless !  He  comes  down  by  the  fire  to  see  if  any- 
thing has  boiled  over  which  he  may  dispose  of.  He 
picks  up  gratefully  the  crumbs  you  scatter  at  your 
feet.  He  trusts  you.  —  See  !  he  rests  a  moment  on 


Ch '  geegee-lokh-  sis.  137 

the  finger  you  extend,  looks  curiously  at  the  nail, 
and  sounds  it  with  his  bill  to  see  if  it  shelters  any 
harmful  insect.  Then  he  goes  back  to  his  birch 
twigs. 

On  summer  days  he  never  overflows  with  the  rol- 
licksomeness  of  bobolink  and  oriole,  but  takes  his 
abundance  in  quiet  contentment.  I  suspect  it  is 
because  he  works  harder  winters,  and  his  enjoyment 
is  more  deep  than  theirs.  In  winter  when  the  snow 
lies  deep,  he  is  the  life  of  the  forest.  He  calls  to  you 
from  the  edges  of  the  bleak  caribou  barrens,  and  his 
greeting  somehow  suggests  the  May.  He  comes  into 
your  rude  bark  camp,  and  eats  of  your  simple  fare, 
and  leaves  a  bit  of  sunshine  behind  him.  He  goes 
with  you,  as  you  force  your  way  heavily  through  the 
fir  thickets  on  snowshoes.  He  is  hungry,  perhaps, 
like  you,  but  his  note  is  none  the  less  cheery  and 
hopeful. 

When  the  sun  shines  hot  in  August,  he  finds  you 
lying  under  the  alders,  with  the  lake  breeze  in  your 
face,  and  he  opens  his  eyes  very  wide  and  says :  "Tsic 
a  dee-e-e?  I  saw  you  last  winter.  Those  were  hard 
times.  But  it 's  good  to  be  here  now."  And  when  the 
rain  pours  down,  and  the  woods  are  drenched,  and  camp 
life  seems  beastly  altogether,  he  appears  suddenly  with 
greeting  cheery  as  the  sunshine.  "Tsic  a  de-e-e-e? 
Don't  you  remember  yesterday  ?  It  rains,  to  be  sure, 


138  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

but  the  insects  are  plenty,  and  to-morrow  the  sun 
will  shine."  His  cheerfulness  is  contagious.  Your 
thoughts  are  better  than  before  he  came. 

Really,  he  is  a  wonderful  little  fellow ;  there  is  no 
end  to  the  good  he  does.  Again  and  again  I  have 
seen  a  man  grow  better  tempered  or  more  cheerful, 
without  knowing  why  he  did  so,  just  because  Chicka- 
dee stopped  a  moment  to  be  cheery  and  sociable.  I 
remember  once  when  a  party  of  four  made  camp 
after  a  driving  rain-storm.  Everybody  was  wet ;  every- 
thing soaking.  The  lazy  man  had  upset  a  canoe,  and 
all  the  dry  clothes  and  blankets  had  just  been  fished 
out  of  the  river.  Now  the  lazy  man  stood  before  the 
fire,  looking  after  his  own  comfort.  The  other  three 
worked  like  beavers,  making  camp.  They  were  in 
ill  humor,  cold,  wet,  hungry,  irritated.  They  said 
nothing. 

A  flock  of  chickadees  came  down  with  sunny  greet- 
ings, fearless,  trustful,  never  obtrusive.  They  looked 
innocently  into  human  faces  and  pretended  that  they 
did  not  see  the  irritation  there.  "Tsic  a  dee.  I  wish 
I  could  help.  Perhaps  I  can.  Tic  a  dee-e-e?"  —  with 
that  gentle,  sweetly  insinuating  up  slide  at  the  end. 
Somebody  spoke,  for  the  first  time  in  half  an  hour, 
and  it  was  n't  a  growl.  Presently  somebody  whistled 
—  a  wee  little  whistle ;  but  the  tide  had  turned. 
Then  somebody  laughed.  "  Ton  my  word,"  he  said, 


Cti  geegee-lokh-sis.  1 39 

hanging  up  his  wet  clothes,  "  I  believe  those  chicka- 
dees make  me  feel  good-natured.  Seem  kind  of 
cheery,  you  know,  and  the  crowd  needed  it." 

And  Chickadee,  picking  up  his  cracker  crumbs, 
did  not  act  at  all  as  if  he  had  done  most  to  make 
camp  comfortable. 

There  is  another  way  in  which  he  helps,  a  more 
material  way.  Millions  of  destructive  insects  live  and 
multiply  in  the  buds  and  tender  bark  of  trees.  Other 
birds  never  see  them,  but  Chickadee  and  his  relations 
leave  never  a  twig  unexplored.  His  bright  eyes  find 
the  tiny  eggs  hidden  under  the  buds ;  his  keen  ears 
hear  the  larvae  feeding  under  the  bark,  and  a  blow  of 
his  little  bill  uncovers  them  in  their  mischief-making. 
His  services  of  this  kind  are  enormous,  though  rarely 
acknowledged. 

Chickadee's  nest  is  always  neat  and  comfortable 
and  interesting,  just  like  himself.  It  is  a  rare  treat 
to  find  it.  He  selects  an  old  knot-hole,  generally  on 
the  sheltered  side  of  a  dry  limb,  and  digs  out  the 
rotten  wood,  making  a  deep  and  sometimes  winding 
tunnel  downward.  In  the  dry  wood  at  the  bottom  he 
makes  a  little  round  pocket  and  lines  it  with  the 
very  softest  material.  When  one  finds  such  a  nest, 
with  five  or  six  white  eggs  delicately  touched  with 
pink  lying  at  the  bottom,  and  a  pair  of  chickadees 
gliding  about,  half  fearful,  half  trustful,  it  is  altogether 


140  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

such  a  beautiful  little  spot  that  I  know  hardly  a  boy- 
who  would  be  mean  enough  to  disturb  it. 

One  thing  about  the  nests  has  always  puzzled  me. 
The  soft  lining  has  generally  more  or  less  rabbit  fur. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  there  is  nothing  else,  and  a  softer 
nest  one  could  not  wish  to  see.  But  where  does  he 
get  it  ?  He  would  not,  I  am  sure,  pull  it  out  of  Br'er 
Rabbit,  as  the  crow  sometimes  pulls  wool  from  the 
sheep's  backs.  Are  his  eyes  bright  enough  to  find  it 
hair  by  hair  where  the  wind  has  blown  it,  down  among 
the  leaves  ?  If  so,  it  must  be  slow  work ;  but  Chick- 
adee is  very  patient.  Sometimes  in  spring  you  may 
surprise  him  on  the  ground,  where  he  never  goes  for 
food ;  but  at  such  times  he  is  always  shy,  and  flits,  up 
among  the  birch  twigs,  and  twitters,  and  goes  through 
an  astonishing  gymnastic  performance,  as  if  to  distract 
your  attention  from  his  former  unusual  one.  That  is 
only  because  you  are  near  his  nest.  If  he  has  a  bit 
of  rabbit  fur  in  his  bill  meanwhile,  your  eyes  are  not 
sharp  enough  to  see  it. 

Once  after  such  a  performance  I  pretended  to  go 
away;  but  I  only  hid  in  a  pine  thicket.  Chickadee 
listened  awhile,  then  hopped  down  to  the  ground, 
picked  up  something  that  I  could  not  see,  and  flew 
away.  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  the  lining  for  his  nest 
near  by.  He  had  dropped  it  when  I  surprised  him, 
so  that  I  should  not  suspect  him  of  nest-building. 


Ch '  geegee-lokh-  sis .  141 

Such  a  bright,  helpful  little  fellow  should  have 
never  an  enemy  in  the  world ;  and  I  think  he  has  to 
contend  against  fewer  than  most  birds.  The  shrike 
is  his  worst  enemy,  the  swift  swoop  of  his  cruel  beak 
being  always  fatal  in  a  flock  of  chickadees.  For- 
tunately the  shrike  is  rare  with  us;  one  seldom  finds 
his  nest,  with  poor  Chickadee  impaled  on  a  sharp 
thorn  near  by,  surrounded  by  a  varied  lot  of  ugly 
beetles.  I  suspect  the  owls  sometimes  hunt  him  at 
night;  but  he  sleeps  in  the  thick  pine  shrubs,  close 
up  against  a  branch,  with  the  pine  needles  all  about 
him,  making  it  very  dark ;  and  what  with  the  darkness, 
and  the  needles  to  stick  in  his  eyes,  the  owl  generally 
gives  up  the  search  and  hunts  in  more  open  woods. 

Sometimes  the  hawks  try  to  catch  him,  but  it  takes 
a  very  quick  and  a  very  small  pair  of  wings  to  follow 
Chickadee.  Once  I  was  watching  him  hanging  head 
down  from  an  oak  twig  to  which  the  dead  leaves  were 
clinging;  for  it  was  winter.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
rush  of  air,  a  flash  of  mottled  wings  and  fierce  yel- 
low eyes  and  cruel  claws.  .Chickadee  whisked  out  of 
sight  under  a  leaf.  The  hawk  passed  on,  brushing 
his  pinions.  A  brown  feather  floated  down  among 
the  oak  leaves.  Then  Chickadee  was  hanging  head 
down,  just  where  he  was  before.  "  Tsic  a  dee  ?  Did  n't 
I  fool  him  ! "  he  seemed  to  say.  He  had  just  gone 
round  his  twig,  and  under  a  leaf,  and  back  again ;  and 


142  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

the  danger  was  over.  When  a  hawk  misses  like  that 
he  never  strikes  again. 

Boys  generally  have  a  kind  of  sympathetic  liking 
for  Chickadee.  They  may  be  cruel  or  thoughtless  to 
other  birds,  but  seldom  so  to  him.  He  seems  some- 
how like  themselves. 

Two  barefoot  boys  with  bows  and  arrows  were 
hunting,  one  September  day,  about  the  half-grown 
thickets  of  an  old  pasture.  The  older  was  teaching 
the  younger  how  to  shoot.  A  robin,  a  chipmunk, 
and  two  or  three  sparrows  were  already  stowed  away 
in  their  jacket  pockets;  a  brown  rabbit  hung  from 
the  older  boy's  shoulder.  Suddenly  the  younger 
raised  his  bow  and  drew  the  arrow  back  to  its  head. 

« 

Just  in  front  a  chickadee  hung  and  twittered  among 
the  birch  twigs.  But  the  older  boy  seized  his  arm. 

"  Don't  shoot  — don't  shoot  him  !  "  he  said. 

"  But  why  not  ?  " 

"  'Cause  you  must  n't  —  you  must  never  kill  a  chick- 
adee." 

And  the  younger,  influenced  more  by  a  certain 
mysterious  shake  of  the  head  than  by  the  words, 
slacked  his  bow  cheerfully ;  and  with  a  last  wide-eyed 
look  at  the  little  gray  bird  that  twittered  and  swung 
so  fearlessly  near  them,  the  two  boys  went  on  with 
their  hunting. 

No  one  ever  taught  the  older  boy  to  discriminate 


Cti  geegee-lokh-sis.  1 43 

between  a  chickadee  and  other  birds ;  no  one  else 
ever  instructed  the  younger.  Yet  somehow  both  felt, 
and  still  feel  after  many  years,  that  there  is  a  differ- 
ence. It  is  always  so  with  boys.  They  are  friends 
of  whatever  trusts  them  and  is  fearless.  Chickadee's 
own  personality,  his  cheery  ways  and  trustful  nature 
had  taught  them,  though  they  knew  it  not.  And 
among  all  the  boys  of  that  neighborhood  there  is 
still  a  law,  which  no  man  gave,  of  which  no  man 
knows  the  origin,  a  law  as  unalterable  as  that  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians  :  Never  kill  a  chickadee. 

If  you  ask  the  boy  there  who  tells  you  the  law, 
"  Why  not  a  chickadee  as  well  as  a  sparrow  ? "  he 
shakes  his  head  as  of  yore,  and  answers  dogmatically : 
"  'Cause  you  must  n't." 


CHICKADEE'S    SECRET. 

If  you  meet  Chickadee  in  May  with  a  bit  of  rabbit 
fur  in  his  mouth,  or  if  he  seem  preoccupied  or  ab- 
sorbed, you  may  know  that  he  is  building  a  nest, 
or  has  a  wife  and  children  near  by  to  take  care  of. 
If  you  know  him  well,  you  may  even  feel  hurt  that 
the  little  friend,  who  shared  your  camp  and  fed  from 
your  dish  last  winter,  should  this  spring  seem  just  as 


144  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

frank,  yet  never  invite  you  to  his  camp,  or  should 
even  lead  you  away  from  it.  But  the  soft  little  nest 
in  the  old  knot-hole  is  the  one  secret  of  Chickadee's 
life  ;  and  the  little  deceptions  by  which  he  tries  to 
keep  it  are  at  times  so  childlike,  so  transparent,  that 
they  are  even  more  interesting  than  his  frankness. 

One  afternoon  in  May  I  was  hunting,  without  a 
gun,  about  an  old  deserted  farm  among  the  hills  — 
one  of  those  sunny  places  that  the  birds  love,  because 
some  sense  of  the  human  beings  who  once  lived  there 
still  clings  about  the  half  wild  fields  and  gives  pro- 
tection. The  day  was  bright  and  warm.  The  birds 
were  everywhere,  flashing  out  of  the  pine  thickets 
into  the  birches  in  all  the  joyfulness  of  nest-building, 
and  filling  the  air  with  life  and  melody.  It  is  poor 
hunting  to  move  about  at  such  a  time.  Either  the 
hunter  or  his  game  must  be  still.  Here  the  birds 
were  moving  constantly;  one  might  see  more  of  them 
and  their  ways  by  just  keeping  quiet  and  invisible. 

I  sat  down  on  the  outer  edge  of  a  pine  thicket,  and 
became  as  much  as  possible  a  part  of  the  old  stump 
which  was  my  seat.  Just  in  front  an  old  four-rail 
fence  wandered  across  the  deserted  pasture,  struggling 
against  the  blackberry  vines,  which  grew  profusely 
about  it  and  seemed  to  be  tugging  at  the  -lower  rail 
to  pull  the  old  fence  down  to  ruin.  On  either  side  it 
disappeared  into  thickets  of  birch  and  oak  and  pitch 


Cti  geegee-lokh-sis.  145 

pine,  planted,  as  were  the  blackberry  vines,  by  birds 
that  stopped  to  rest  a  moment  on  the  old  fence  or 
to  satisfy  their  curiosity.  Stout  young  trees  had 
crowded  it  aside  and  broken  it.  Here  and  there  a 
leaning  post  was  overgrown  with  woodbine.  The 
rails  were  gray  and  moss-grown.  Nature  was  try- 
ing hard  to  make  it  a  bit  of  the  landscape  ;  it  could 
not  much  longer  retain  its  individuality.  The  wild 
things  of  the  woods  had  long  accepted  it  as  theirs, 
though  not  quite  as  they  accepted  the  vines  and 
trees. 

As  I  sat  there  a  robin  hurled  himself  upon  it 
from  the  top  of  a  young  cedar  where  he  had  been, 
a  moment  before,  practising  his  mating  song.  He 
did  not  intend  to  light,  but  some  idle  curiosity,  like 
my  own,  made  him  pause  a  moment  on  the  old  gray 
rail.  Then  a  woodpecker  lit  on  the  side  of  a  post, 
and  sounded  it  softly.  But  he  was  too  near  the 
ground,  too  near  his  enemies  to  make  a  noise  ;  so 
he  flew  to  a  higher  perch  and  beat  a  tattoo  that  made 
the  woods  ring.  He  was  safe  there,  and  could  make 
as  much  noise  as  he  pleased.  A  wood-mouse  stirred 
the  vines  and  appeared  for  an  instant  on  the  lower 
rail,  then  disappeared  as  if  very  much  frightened  at 
having  shown  himself  in  the  sunlight.  He  always 
does  just  so  at  his  first  appearance. 

Presently  a  red  squirrel  rushes  out  of  the  thicket 


146  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

at  the  left,  scurries  along  the  rails  and  up  and  down  the 
posts.  He  goes  like  a  little  red  whirlwind,  though  he 
has  nothing  whatever  to  hurry  about.  Just  opposite  my 
stump  he  stops  his  rush  with  marvelous  suddenness  ; 
chatters,  barks,  scolds,  tries  to,  make  me  move ;  then 
goes  on  and  out  of  sight  at  the  same  breakneck  rush. 
A  jay  stops  a  moment  in  a  young  hickory  above  the 
fence  to  whistle  his  curiosity,  just  as  if  he  had  not 
seen  it  fifty  times  before.  A  curiosity  to  him  never 
grows  old.  He  does  not  scream  now ;  it  is  his  nest- 
ing time.  —  And  so  on  through  the  afternoon.  The 
old  fence  is  becoming  a  part  of  the  woods ;  and  every 
wild  thing  that  passes  by  stops  to  get  acquainted. 

I  was  weaving  an  idle  history  of  the  old  fence, 
when  a  chickadee  twittered  in  the  pine  behind  me. 
As  I  turned,  he  flew  over  me  and  lit  on  the  fence 
in  front.  He  had  something  in  his  beak ;  so  I 
watched  to  find  his  nest;  for  I  wanted  very  much 
to  see  him  at  work.  Chickadee  had  never  seemed 
afraid  of  me,  and  I  thought  he  would  trust  me  now. 
But  he  did  n't.  He  would  not  go  near  his  nest. 
Instead  he  began  hopping  about  the  old  rail,  and 
pretended  to  be  very  busy  hunting  for  insects. 

Presently  his  mate  appeared,  and  with  a  sharp  note 
he  called  her  down  beside  him.  Then  both  birds 
hopped  and  twittered  about  the  rail,  with  apparently 
never  a  care  in  the  world.  The  male  especially 


Cti  geegee-lokh-sis.  147 

seemed  just  in  the  mood  for  a  frolic.  He  ran  up 
and  down  the  mossy  rail ;  he  whirled  about  it  till 
he  looked  like  a  little  gray  pinwheel ;  he  hung  head 
down  by  his  toes,  dropped,  and  turned  like  a  cat,  so 


as  to  light  on  his  feet  on  the  rail  below.  While 
watching  his  performance,  I  hardly  noticed  that  his 
mate  had  gone  till  she  reappeared  suddenly  on  the 
rail  beside  him.  Then  he  disappeared,  while  she 
kept  up  the  performance  on  the  rail,  with  more 


148  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

of  a  twitter,  perhaps,  and  less  of  gymnastics.  In  a 
few  moments  both  birds  were  together  again  and 
flew  into  the  pines  out  of  sight. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  them  in  watching  other 
birds,  when  they  reappeared  on  the  rail,  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  later,  and  went  through  a  very  similar  per- 
formance. This  was  unusual,  certainly ;  and  I  sat 
very  quiet,  very  much  interested,  though  a  bit  puz- 
zled, and  a  bit  disappointed  that  they  had  not  gone 
to  their  nest.  They  had  some  material  in  their 
beaks  both  times  when  they  appeared  on  the  rail, 
and  were  now  probably  off  hunting  for  more  —  for 
rabbit  fur,  perhaps,  in  the  old  orchard.  But  what  had 
they  done  with  it?  "Perhaps,"  I  thought,  "they 
dropped  it  to  deceive  me."  Chickadee  does  that  some- 
times. "  But  why  did  one  bird  stay  on  the  rail  ? 
Perhaps "  —  Well,  I  would  look  and  see. 

I  left  my  stump  as  the  idea  struck  me,  and  began 
to  examine  the  posts  of  the  old  fence  very  carefully. 
Chickadee's  nest  was  there  somewhere.  In  the  second 
post  on  the  left  I  found  it,  a  tiny  knot-hole,  which 
Chickadee  had  hollowed  out  deep  and  lined  with 
rabbit  fur.  It  was  well  hidden  by  the  vines  that 
almost  covered  the  old  post,  and  gray  moss  grew  all 
about  the  entrance.  A  prettier  nest  I  never  found. 

I  went  back  to  my  stump  and  sat  down  where  I 
could  just  see  the  dark  little  hole  that  led  to  the 


Cti  geegee-lokh-sis.  1 49 

nest.  No  other  birds  interested  me  now  till  the 
chickadees  came  back.  They  were  soon  there,  hop- 
ping about  on  the  rail  as  before,  with  jifst  a  wee  note 
of  surprise  in  their  soft  twitter  that  I  had  changed 
my  position.  This  time  I  was  not  to  be  deceived 
by  a  gymnastic  performance,  however  interesting.  I 
kept  my  eyes  fastened  on  the  nest.  The  male  was 
undoubtedly  going  through  with  his  most  difficult 
feats,  and  doing  his  best  to  engage  my  attention, 
when  I  saw  his  mate  glide  suddenly  from  behind  the 
post  and  disappear  into  her  doorway.  I  could  hardly 
be  sure  it  was  a  bird.  It  seemed  rather  as  if  the 
wind  had  stirred  a  little  bundle  of  gray  moss.  Had 
she  moved  slowly  I  might  not  have  seen  her,  so 
closely  did  her  soft  gray  cloak  blend  with  the  weather- 
beaten  wood  and  the  moss. 

In  a  few  moments  she  reappeared,  waited  a  moment 
with  her  tiny  head  just  peeking  out  of  the  knot-hole, 
flashed  round  the  post  out  of  sight,  and  when  I  saw 
her  again  it  was  as  she  reappeared  suddenly  beside 
the  male. 

Then  I  watched  him.  While  his  mate  whisked 
about  the  top  rail  he  dropped  to  the  middle  one, 
hopped  gradually  to  one  side,  then  dropped  suddenly 
to  the  lowest  one,  half  hidden  by  vines,  and  disap- 
peared. I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  nest.  In  a  moment 
there  he  was  —  just  a  little  gray  flash,  appearing  for 


150  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

an  instant  from  behind  the  post,  only  to  disappear 
into  the  dark  entrance.  When  he  came  out  again 
I  had  but  a  glimpse  of  him  till  he  appeared  on  the 
rail  near  me  beside  his  mate. 

Their  little  ruse  was  now  quite  evident.  They  had 
come  back  from  gathering  rabbit  fur,  and  found  me 
unexpectedly  near  their  nest.  Instead  of  making  a 
fuss  and  betraying  it,  as  other  birds  might  do,  they 
lit  on  the  rail  before  me,  and  were  as  sociable  as  only 
chickadees  know  how  to  be.  While  one  entertained 
me,  and  kept  my  attention,  the  other  dropped  to  the 
bottom  rail  and  stole  along  behind  it ;  then  up  behind 
the  post  that  held  their  nest,  and  back  the  same  way, 
after  leaving  his  material.  Then  he  held  my  atten- 
tion while  his  mate  did  the  same  thing. 

Simple  as  their  little  device  was,  it  deceived  me  at 
first,  and  would  have  deceived  me  permanently  had  I 
not  known  something  of  chickadees'  ways,  and  found 
the  nest  while  they  were  away.  Game  birds  have 
the  trick  of  decoying  one  away  from  their  nest.  I 
am  not  sure  that  all  birds  do  not  have  more  or  less  of 
the  same  instinct ;  but  certainly  none  ever  before  or 
since  used  it  so  well  with  me  as  Ch'geegee. 

For  two  hours  or  more  I  sat  there  beside  the  pine 
thicket,  while  the  chickadees  came  and  went.  Some- 
times they  approached  the  nest  from  the  other  side, 
and  I  did  not  see  them,  or  perhaps  got  only  a  glimpse 


Cfi  geegee-lokh-sis .  151 

as  they  glided  into  their  doorway.  Whenever  they 
approached  from  my  side,  they  always  stopped  on  the 
rail  before  me  and  went  through  with  their  little 
entertainment.  Gradually  they  grew  more  confident, 
and  were  less  careful  to  conceal  their  movements 
than  at  first.  Sometimes  only  one  came,  and  after 
a  short  performance  disappeared.  Perhaps  they 
thought  me  harmless,  or  that  they  had  deceived  me 
so  well  at  first  that  I  did  not  even  suspect  them  of 
nest-building.  Anyway,  I  never  pretended  I  knew. 
As  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  the  sun  dropped 
into  the  pine  tops,  the  chickadees  grew  hungry,  and 
left  their  work  until  the  morrow.  They  were  calling 
among  the  young  birch  buds  as  I  left  them,  busy  and 
sociable  together,  hunting  their  supper. 


XL     A    FELLOW    OF    EXPEDIENTS. 

MONG  the  birds  there  is  one  whose  per- 
sonal appearance  is  rapidly  changing. 
He  illustrates  in  his  present  life  a 
process  well  known  historically  to  all 
naturalists,  viz.,  the  modification  of  form 
resulting  from  changed  environment. 
I  refer  to  the  golden-winged  woodpecker,  perhaps 
the  most  beautifully  marked  bird  of  the  North, 
whose  names  are  as  varied  as  his  habits  and  accom- 
plishments. 

Nature  intended  him  to  get  his  living,  as  do  the 
other  woodpeckers,  by  boring  into  old  trees  and 
stumps  for  the  insects  that  live  on  the  decaying 
wood.  For  this  purpose  she  gave  him  the  straight, 
sharp,  wedge-shaped  bill,  just  calculated  for  cutting 
out  chips ;  the  very  long  horn-tipped  tongue  for 
thrusting  into  the  holes  he  makes ;  the  peculiar 
arrangement  of  toes,  two  forward  and  two  back ;  and 
the  stiff,  spiny  tail-feathers  for  supporting  himself 
against  the  side  of  a  tree  as  he  works.  But  getting 

his  living  so  means  hard  work,  and  he  has  discovered 

152 


A  Fellow  of  Expedients.  153 

for  himself  a  much  easier  way.  One  now  frequently 
surprises  him  on  the  ground  in  old  pastures  and 
orchards,  floundering  about  rather  awkwardly  (for  his 
little  feet  were  never  intended  for  walking)  after  the 
crickets  and  grasshoppers  that  abound  there.  Still 
he  finds  the  work  of  catching  them  much  easier  than 
boring  into  dry  old  trees,  and  the  insects  themselves 
much  larger  and  more  satisfactory. 

A  single  glance  will  show  how  much  this  new  way 
of  living  has  changed  him  from  the  other  wood- 
peckers. The  bill  is  no  longer  straight,  but  has  a 
decided  curve,  like  the  thrushes ;  and  instead  of  the 
chisel-shaped  edge  there  is  a  rounded  point.  The 
red  tuft  on  the  head,  which  marks  all  the  woodpecker 
family,  would  be  too  conspicuous  on  the  ground.  In 
its  place  we  find  a  red  crescent  well  down  on  the  neck, 
and  partially  hidden  by  the  short  gray  feathers  about 
it.  The  point  of  the  tongue  is  less  horny,  and  from 
the  stiff  points  of  the  tail-feathers  laminae  are  begin- 
ning to  grow,  making  them  more  like  other  birds'. 
A  future  generation  will  undoubtedly  wonder  where 
this  peculiar  kind  of  thrush  got  his  unusual  tongue 
and  tail,  just  as  we  wonder  at  the  deformed  little  feet 
and  strange  ways  of  a  cuckoo. 

The  habits  of  this  bird  are  a  curious  compound  of 
his  old  life  in  the  woods  and  his  new  preference  for 
the  open  fields  and  farms,  Sometimes  the  nest  is  in 


154  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

the  very  heart  of  the  woods,  where  the  bird  glides  in 
and  out,  silent  as  a  crow  in  nesting  time.  His  feeding 
place  meanwhile  may  be  an  old  pasture  half  a  mile 
away,  where  he  calls  loudly,  and  frolics  about  as  if  he 
had  never  a  care  or  a  fear  in  the  world.  But  the  nest 
is  now  more  frequently  in  a  wild  orchard,  where  the 
bird  finds  an  old  knot-hole  and  digs  down  through 
the  soft  wood,  making  a  deep  nest  with  very  little 
trouble.  When  the  knot-hole  is  not  well  situated, 
he  finds  a  large  decayed  limb  and  drills  through  the 
outer  hard  shell,  then  digs  down  a  foot  or  more 
through  the  soft  wood,  and  makes  a  nest.  In  this 
nest  the  rain  never  troubles  him,  for  he  very  provi- 
dently drills  the  entrance  on  the  under  side  of  the 
limb. 

Like  many  other  birds,  he  has  discovered  that  the 
farmer  is  his  friend.  Occasionally,  therefore,  he  neg- 
lects to  build  a  deep  nest,  simply  hollowing  out  an 
old  knot-hole,  and  depending  on  the  presence  of  man 
for  protection  from  hawks  and  owls.  At  such  times 
the  bird  very  soon  learns  to  recognize  those  who 
belong  in  the  orchard,  and  loses  the  extreme  shyness 
that  characterizes  him  at  all  other  times. 

Once  a  farmer,  knowing  my  interest  in  birds,  invited 
me  to  come  and  see  a  golden-winged  woodpecker, 
which  in  her  confidence  had  built  so  shallow  a  nest 
that  she  could  be  seen  sitting  on  the  eggs  like  a  robin. 


A  Fellow  of  Expedients.  155 

She  was  so  tame,  he  said,  that  in  going  to  his  work  he 
sometimes  passed  under  the  tree  without  disturbing 
her.  The  moment  we  crossed  the  wall  within  sight 
of  the  nest,  the  bird  slipped  away  out  of  the  orchard. 
Wishing  to  test  her,  we  withdrew  and  waited  till  she 
returned.  Then  the  farmer  passed  within  a  few  feet 
without  disturbing  her  in  the  least.  Ten  minutes 
later  I  followed  him,  and  the  bird  flew  away  again 
as  I  crossed  the  wall. 

The  notes  of  the  golden- wing  —  much  more  varied 
and  musical  than  those  of  other  woodpeckers  —  are 
probably  the  results  of  his  new  free  life,  and  the  modi- 
fied tongue  and  bill.  In  the  woods  one  seldom  hears 
from  him  anything  but  the  rattling  rat-a-tat-tat,  as  he 
hammers  away  on  a  dry  old  pine  stub.  As  a  rule  he 
seems  to  do  this  more  for  the  noise  it  makes,  and  the 
exercise  of  his  abilities,  than  because  he  expects  to 
find  insects  inside ;  except  in  winter  time,  when  he 
goes  back  to  his  old  ways.  But  out  in  the  fields  he 
has  a  variety  of  notes.  Sometimes  it  is  a  loud  kee-uk, 
like  the  scream  of  a  blue  jay  divided  into  two  syllables, 
with  the  accent  on  the  last.  Again  it  is  a  loud  cheery 
whistling  call,  of  very  short  notes  run  close  together, 
with  accent  on  every  other  one.  Again  he  teeters 
up  and  down  on  the  end  of  an  old  fence  rail  with  a 
rollicking  eekoo,  eekoo,  eekoo,  that  sounds  more  like  a 
laugh  than  anything  else  among  the  birds.  In  most 


156  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

of  his  musical  efforts  the  golden-wing,  instead  of 
clinging  to  the  side  of  a  tree,  sits  across  the  limb,  like 
other  birds. 

A  curious  habit  which  the  bird  has  adopted  with 
advancing  civilization  is  that  of  providing  himself 
with  a  sheltered  sleeping  place  from  the  storms  and 
cold  of  winter.  Late  in  the  fall  he  finds  a  deserted 
building,  and  after  a  great  deal  of  shy  inspection, 
to  satisfy  himself  that  no  one  is  within,  drills  a  hole 
through  the  side.  He  has  then  a  comfortable  place  to 
sleep,  and  an  abundance  of  decaying  wood  in  which 
to  hunt  insects  on  stormy  days.  An  ice-house  is  a 
favorite  location  for  him,  the  warm  sawdust  furnish- 
ing a  good  burrowing  place  for  a  nest  or  sleeping 
room.  When  a  building  is  used  as  a  nesting  place, 
the  bird  very  cunningly  drills  the  entrance  close  up 
under  the  eaves,  where  it  is  sheltered  from  storms,  and 
at  the  same  time  out  of  sight  of  all  prying  eyes. 

During  the  winter  several  birds  often  occupy  one 
building  together.  I  know  of  one  old  deserted  barn 
where  last  year  five  of  the  birds  lived  very  peaceably ; 
though  what  they  were  doing  there  in  the  daytime  I 
could  never  quite  make  out.  At  almost  any  hour  of  the 
day,  if  one  approached  very  cautiously  and  thumped 
the  side  of  the  barn,  some  of  the  birds  would  dash  out 
in  great  alarm,  never  stopping  to  look  behind  them. 
At  first  there  were  but  three  entrances ;  but  after  I 


A  Fellow  of  Expedients.  157 

had  surprised  them  a  few  times,  two  more  were  added  ; 
whether  to  get  out  more  quickly  when  all  were  inside, 
or  simply  for  the  sake  of  drilling  the  holes,  I  do  not 
know.  Sometimes  a  pair  of  birds  will  have  five  or 
six  holes  drilled,  generally  on  the  same  side  of  the 
building. 

Two  things  about  my  family  in  the  old  barn  aroused 
my  curiosity  —  what  they  were  doing  there  by  day, 
and  how  they  got  out  so  quickly  when  alarmed.  The 
only  way  it  seemed  possible  for  them  to  dash  out  on 
the  instant,  as  they  did,  was  to  fly  straight  through. 
But  the  holes  were  too  small,  and  no  bird  but  a  bank- 
swallow  would  have  attempted  such  a  thing. 

One  day  I  drove  the  birds  out,  then  crawled  in 
under  a  sill  on  the  opposite  side,  and  hid  in  a  corner 
of  the  loft  without  disturbing  anything  inside.  It  was 
a  long  wait  in  the  stuffy  old  place  before  one  of  the 
birds  came  back.  I  heard  him  light  first  on  the  roof ; 
then  his  little  head  appeared  at  one  of  the  holes  as  he 
sat  just  below,  against  the  side  of  the  barn,  looking 
and  listening  before  coming  in.  Quite  satisfied  after 
a  minute  or  two  that  nobody  was  inside,  he  scrambled 
in  and  flew  down  to  a  corner  in  which  was  a  lot  of 
old  hay  and  rubbish.  Here  he  began  a  great  rustle 
and  stirring  about,  like  a  squirrel  in  autumn  leaves, 
probably  after  insects,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
just  what  he  was  doing.  It  sounded  part  of  the  time 


158  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

as  if  he  were  scratching  aside  the  hay,  much  as  a  hen 
would  have  done.  If  so,  his  two  little  front  toes  must 
have  made  sad  work  of  it,  with  the  two  hind  ones 
always  getting  doubled  up  in  the  way.  When  I 
thumped  suddenly  against  the  side  of  the  barn,  he 
hurled  himself  like  a  shot  at  one  of  the  holes,  alight- 
ing just  below  it,  and  stuck  there  in  a  way  that 
reminded  me  of  the  chewed-paper  balls  that  boys 
used  to  throw  against  the  blackboard  in  school.  I 
could  hear  plainly  the  thump  of  his  little  feet  as  he 
struck.  With  the  same  movement,  and  without  paus- 
ing an  instant,  he  dived  through  headlong,  aided  by  a 
spring  from  his  tail,  much  as  a  jumping  jack  goes  over 
the  head  of  his  stick,  only  much  more  rapidly.  Hardly 
had  he  gone  before  another  appeared,  to  go  through 
the  same  program. 

Though  much  shyer  than  other  birds  of  the  farm, 
he  often  ventures  up  close  to  the  house  and  doorway 
in  the  early  morning,  before  any  one  is  stirring.  One 
spring  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  strange  little 
pattering  sound,  and,  opening  my  eyes,  was  astonished 
to  see  one  of  these  birds  on  the  sash  of  the  open  win- 
dow within  five  feet  of  my  hand.  Half  closing  my 
eyes,  I  kept  very  still  and  watched.  Just  in  front  of 
him,  on  the  bureau,  was  a  stuffed  golden-wing,  with 
wings  and  tail  spread  to  show  to  best  advantage  the 
beautiful  plumage.  He  had  seen  it  in  flying  by,  and 


A  Fellow  of  Expedients.  159 

now  stood  hopping  back  and  forth  along  the  window 
sash,  uncertain  whether  to  come  in  or  not.  Sometimes 
he  spread  his  wings  as  if  on  the  point  of  flying  in ; 
then  he  would  turn  his  head  to  look  curiously  at  me 
and  at  the  strange  surroundings,  and,  afraid  to  venture 
in,  endeavor  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  stuffed  bird, 
whose  head  was  turned  away.  In  the  looking-glass 
he  saw  his  own  movements  repeated.  Twice  he  began 
his  love  call  very  softly,  but  cut  it  short,  as  if  frightened. 
The  echo  of  the  small  room  made  it  seem  so  different 
from  the  same  call  in  the  open  fields  that  I  think  he 
doubted  even  his  own  voice. 

Almost  over  his  head,  on  a  bracket  against  the  wall, 
was  another  bird,  a  great  hawk,  pitched  forward  on 
his  perch,  with  wings  wide  spread  and  fierce  eyes 
glaring  downward,  in  the  intense  attitude  a  hawk 
takes  as  he  strikes  his  prey  from  some  lofty  watch 
tree.  The  golden-wing  by  this  time  was  ready  to 
venture  in.  He  had  leaned  forward  with  wings  spread, 
looking  down  at  me  to  be  quite  sure  I  was  harmless, 
when,  turning  his  head  for  a  final  look  round,  he 
caught  sight  of  the  hawk  just  ready  to  pounce  down 
on  him.  With  a  startled  kee-uk  he  fairly  tumbled 
back  off  the  window  sash,  and  I  caught  one  glimpse 
of  him  as  he  dashed  round  the  corner  in  full  flight. 

What  were  his  impressions,  I  wonder,  as  he  sat  on 
a  limb  of  the  old  apple  tree  and  thought  it  all  over  ? 


160  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

Do  birds  have  romances?  How  much  greater  won- 
ders had  he  seen  than  those  of  any  romance !  And 
do  they  have  any  means  of  communicating  them,  as 
they  sing  their  love  songs  ?  What  a  wonderful  story 
he  could  tell,  a  real  story,  of  a  magic  palace  full  of 
strange  wonders;  of  a  glittering  bit  of  air  that  made 
him  see  himself ;  of  a  giant,  all  in  white,  with  only  his 
head  visible ;  of  an  enchanted  beauty,  stretching  her 
wings'  in  mute  supplication  for  some  brave  knight  to 
touch  her  and  break  the  spell,  while  on  high  a  fierce 
dragon-hawk  kept  watch,  ready  to  eat  up  any  one  who 
should  dare  enter ! 

And  of  course  none  of  the  birds  would  believe  him. 
He  would  have  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life  explaining ; 
and  the  others  would  only  whistle,  and  call  him  lagoo, 
the  lying  woodpecker.  On  the  whole,  it  would  be 
better  for  a  bird  with  such  a  very  unusual  experience 
to  keep  still  about  it. 


XII.     A    TEMPERANCE    LESSON    FOR 
THE    HORNETS. 

'AST  spring  a  hornet,  one  of  those  long  brown 
double  chaps  that  boys  call  mud-wasps, 
crept  out  of  his  mud  shell  at  the  top  of 
my  window  casing,  and  buzzed  in  the  sun- 
shine till  I  opened  the  window  and  let  him 
go.  Perhaps  he  remembered  his  warm  quarters,  or 
told  a  companion ;  for  when  the  last  sunny  days  of 
October  were  come,  there  was  a  hornet,  buzzing 
persistently  at  the  same  window  till  it  opened  and 
let  him  in. 

It  was  a  rather  rickety  old  room,  though  sunny  and 
very  pleasant,  which  had  been  used  as  a  study  by 
generations  of  theological  students.  Moreover,  it  was 
considered  clean  all  over,  like  a  boy  with  his  face 
washed,  when  the  floor  was  swept;  and  no  storm  of 
general  house  cleaning  ever  disturbed  its  peace.  So 
overhead,  where  the  ceiling  sagged  from  the  walls, 
and  in  dusty  chinks  about  doors  and  windows  that  no 
broom  ever  harried,  a  family  of  spiders,  some  mice,  a 
daddy-long-legs,  two  crickets,  and  a  bluebottle  fly, 

161 


1 62  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

besides    the    hornet,  found    snug   quarters    in    their 
season,  and  a  welcome. 

The  hornet  stayed  about,  contentedly  enough,  for 
a  week  or  more,  crawling  over  the  window  panes  till 
they  were  thoroughly  explored,  and  occasionally  tak- 
ing a  look  through  the  scattered  papers  on  the  table. 
Once  he  sauntered  up  to  the  end  of  the  penholder  I 
was  using,  and  stayed  there,  balancing  himself,  spread- 
ing his  wings,  and  looking  interested  while  the  greater 
part  of  a  letter  was  finished.  Then  he  crawled  down 
over  my  fingers  till  he  wet  his  feet  in  the  ink ;  where- 
upon he  buzzed  off  in  high  dudgeon  to  dry  them  in 
the  sun. 

At  first  he  was  sociable  enough,  and  peaceable  as 
one  could  wish ;  but  one  night,  when  it  was  chilly,  he 
stowed  himself  away  to  sleep  under  the  pillow.  When 
I  laid  my  head  upon  it,  he  objected  to  the  extra  weight, 
and  drove  me  ignominiously  from  my  own  bed.  An- 
other time  he  crawled  into  a  handkerchief.  When  I 
picked  it  up  to  use  it,  after  the  light  was  out,  he  stung 
me  on  the  nose,  not  understanding  the  situation.  In 
whacking  him  off  I  broke  one  of  his  legs,  and  made 
his  wings  all  awry.  After  that  he  would  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  me,  but  kept  to  his  own  window  as 
long  as  the  fine  weather  lasted. 

•  When   the   November   storms    came,  he   went  up 
to  a  big  crack  in  the  window  casing,  whence  he  had 


A   Temperance  Lesson  for  the  Hornets.      163 

emerged  in  the  spring,  and  crept  in,  and  went  to 
sleep.  It  was  pleasant  there,  and  at  noontime,  on 
days  when  the  sun  shone,  it  streamed  brightly  into 
his  doorway,  waking  him  out  of  his  winter  sleep.  As 
late  as  December  he  would  come  out  occasionally  at 


midday  to  walk  about  and  spread  his  wings  in  the 
sun.  Then  a  snow-storm  came,  and  he  disappeared 
for  two  weeks. 

One  day,  when  a  student  was  sick,  a  tumbler  of 
medicine  had  been  carelessly  left  on  the  broad  win- 
dow sill.  It  contained  a  few  lumps  of  sugar,  over 
which  a  mixture  of  whiskey  and  glycerine  had  been 


164  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

poured.  The  sugar  melted  gradually  in  the  sun,  and 
a  strong  odor  of  alcohol  rose  from  the  sticky  stuff. 
That  and  the  sunshine  must  have  roused  my  hornet 
guest,  for  when  I  came  back  to  the  room,  there  he  lay 
by  the  tumbler,  dead  drunk. 

He  was  stretched  out  on  his  side,  one  wing  doubled 
under  him,  a  forward  leg  curled  over  his  head,  a 
sleepy,  boozy,  perfectly  ludicrous  expression  on  his 
pointed  face.  I  poked  him  a  bit  with  my  finger,  to 
see  how  the  alcohol  affected  his  temper.  He  rose 
unsteadily,  staggered  about,  and  knocked  his  head 
against  the  tumbler? at  which  fancied  insult  he  raised 
his  wings  in  a  limp  kind  of  dignity  and  defiance,  buzz- 
ing a  challenge.  But  he  lost  his  legs,  and  fell  down; 
and  presently,  in  spite  of  pokings,  went  off  into  a 
drunken  sleep  again. 

All  the  afternoon  he  lay  there.  As  it  grew  cooler 
he  stirred  about  uneasily.  At  dusk  he  started  up  for 
his  nest.  It  was  a  hard  pull  to  get  there.  His  head 
was  heavy,  and  his  legs  shaky.  Half  way  up,  he 
stopped  on  top  of  the  lower  sash  to  lie  down  awhile. 
He  had  a  terrible  headache,  evidently;  he  kept  rub- 
bing his  head  with  his  fore  legs  as  if  to  relieve  the 
pain.  After  a  fall  or  two  on  the  second  sash,  he 
reached  the  top,  and  tumbled  into  his  warm  nest  to 
sleep  off  the  effects  of  his  spree. 

One  such  lesson  should  have  been  enough ;  but  it 


A   'Temperance  Lesson  for  the  Hornets.      165 

was  n't.  Perhaps,  also,  I  should  have  put  temptation 
out  of  his  way ;  for  I  knew  that  all  hornets,  especially 
yellow-jackets,  are  hopeless  topers  when  they  get  a 
chance ;  that  when  a  wasp  discovers  a  fermenting 
apple,  it  is  all  up  with  his  steady  habits ;  that  when  a 
nest  of  them  discover  a  cider  mill,  all  work,  even  the 
care  of  the  young,  is  neglected.  They  take  to  drink- 
ing, and  get  utterly  demoralized.  But  in  the  interest 
of  a  new  experiment  I  forgot  true  kindness,  and  left 
the  tumbler  where  it  was. 

The  next  day,  at  noon,  he  was  stretched  out  on  the 
sill,  drunk  again.  For  three  days  he  kept  up  his 
tippling,  coming  out  when  the  sun  shone  warmly,  and 
going  straight  to  the  fatal  tumbler.  On  the  fourth 
day  he  paid  the  penalty  of  his  intemperance. 

The  morning  was  very  bright,  and  the  janitor  had 
left  the  hornet's  window  slightly  open.  At  noon  he 
was  lying  on  the  window  sill,  drunk  as  usual.  I  was 
in  a  hurry  to  take  a  train,  and  neglected  to  close  the 
window.  Late  at  night,  when  I  came  back  to  my 
room,  he  was  gone.  He  was  not  on  the  sill,  nor  on 
the  floor,  nor  under  the  window  cushions.  His  nest 
in  the  casing,  where  I  had  so  often  watched  him 
asleep,  was  empty.  Taking  a  candle,  I  went  out  to 
search  under  the  window.  There  I  found  him  in  the 
snow,  his  legs  curled  up  close  to  his  body,  frozen  stiff 
with  the  drip  of  the  eaves. 


1 66  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

I  carried  him  in  and  warmed  him  at  the  fire,  but 
it  was  too  late.  He  had  been  drunk  once  too  often. 
When  I  saw  that  he  was  dead,  I  stowed  him  away  in 
the  nest  he  had  been  seeking  when  he  fell  out  into 
the  snow.  I  tried  to  read ;  but  the  book  seemed  dull. 
Every  little  while  I  got  up  to  look  at  him,  lying  there 
with  his  little  pointed  face,  still  dead.  At  last  I 
wrapped  him  up,  and  pushed  him  farther  in,  out  of 
sight. 

All  the  while  the  empty  tumbler  seemed  to  look 
at  me  reproachfully  from  the  window  sill. 


XIII.     SNOWY    VISITORS. 


my  table,  as  I  write,  is  a 
big  snowy  owl  whose  yel- 
low eyes  seem  to  be  always 
watching  me,  whatever  I 
do.  Perhaps  he  is  still 
wondering  at  the  curious 
way  in  which  I  shot  him. 
One  stormy  afternoon, 
a  few  winters  ago,  I  was 
black-duck  shooting  at 
sundown,  by  a  lonely  salt 
creek  that  doubled  across 
the  marshes  from  Mad- 

daket  Harbor.  In  the  shadow  of  a  low  ridge  I  had 
built  my  blind  among  some  bushes,  near  the  freshest 
water.  In  front  of  me  a  solitary  decoy  was  splashing 
about  in  joyous  freedom  after  having  been  confined 
all  day,  quacking  loudly  at  the  loneliness  of  the  place 
and  at  being  separated  from  her  mate.  Beside  me, 
crouched  in  the  blind,  my  old  dog  Don  was  trying 
his  best  to  shiver  himself  warm  without  disturbing 

167 


1 68  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

the  bushes  too  much.  That  woukl  have  frightened 
the  incoming  ducks,  as  Don  knew  very  well. 

It  grew  dark  and  bitterly  cold.  No  birds  were  fly- 
ing, and '  I  had  stood  up  a  moment  to  let  the  blood 
down  into  half-frozen  toes,  when  a  shadow  seemed  to 
pass  over  my  head.  The  next  moment  there  was  a 
splash,  followed  by  loud  quacks  of  alarm  from  the 
decoy.  All  I  could  make  out,  in  the  obscurity  under 
the  ridge,  was  a  flutter  of  wings  that  rose  heavily  from 
the  water,  taking  my  duck  with  them.  Only  the 
anchor  string  prevented  the  marauder  from  getting 
away  with  his  booty.  Not  wishing  to  shoot,  for 
the  decoy  was  a  valuable  one,  I  shouted  vigorously, 
and  sent  out  the  dog.  The  decoy  dropped  with  a 
splash,  and  in  the  darkness  the  thief  got  away  —  just 
vanished,  like  a  shadow,  without  a  sound. 

Poor  ducky  died  in  my  hands  a  few  moments  later, 
the  marks  of  sharp  claws  telling  me  plainly  that  the 
thief  was  an  owl,  though  I  had  no  suspicion  then 
that  it  was  the  rare  winter  visitor  from  the  north.  I 
supposed,  of  course,  that  it  was  only  a  great-horned- 
owl,  and  so  laid  plans  to  get  him. 

Next  night  I  was  at  the  same  spot  with  a  good 
duck  call,  and  some  wooden  decoys,  over  which  the 
skins  of  wild  ducks  had  been  carefully  stretched.  An 
hour  after  dark  he  came  again,  attracted,  no  doubt, 
by  the  continued  quacking.  I  had  another  swift 


Snowy   Visitors.  1 69 

glimpse  of  what  seemed  only  a  shadow  ;  saw  it  poise 
and  shoot  downward  before  I  could  kfind  it  with  my 
gun  sight,  striking  the  decoys  with  a  great  splash  and 
clatter.  Before  he  discovered  his  mistake  or  could  get 
started  again,  I  had  him.  The  next  moment  Don 
came  ashore,  proud  as  a  peacock,  bringing  a  great 
snowy  owl  with  him  —  a  rare  prize,  worth  ten  times 
the  trouble  we  had  taken  to  get  it. 

Owls  are  generally  very  lean  and  muscular ;  so 
much  so,  in  severe  winters,  that  they  are  often  unable 
to  fly  straight  when  the  wind  blows ;  and  a  twenty- 
knot  breeze  catches  their  broad  wings  and  tosses 
them  about  helplessly.  This  one,  however,  was  fat 
as  a  plover.  When  I  stuffed  him,  I  found  that  he 
had  just  eaten  a  big  rat  and  a  meadow-lark,  hair, 
bones,  feathers  and  all.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
know  what  he  intended  to  do  with  the  duck.  Per- 
haps, like  the  crow,  he  has  snug  hiding  places  here 
and  there,  where  he  keeps  things  against  a  time  of 
need. 

Every  severe  winter  a  few  of  these  beautiful  owls 
find  their  way  to  the  lonely  places  of  the  New  Eng- 
land coast,  driven  southward,  no  doubt,  by  lack  of 
food  in  the  frozen  north.  Here  in  Massachusetts 
they  seem  to  prefer  the  southern  shores  of  Cape  Cod, 
and  especially  the  island  of  Nantucket,  where  besides 
the  food  cast  up  by  the  tides,  there  are  larks  and 


lyo  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

blackbirds  and  robins,  which  linger  more  or  less  all 
winter.  At  home  in  the  far  north,  the  owls  feed 
largely  upon  hares  and  grouse ;  here  nothing  comes 
amiss,  from  a  stray  cat,  roving  too  far  from  the  house, 
to  stray  mussels  on  the  beach  that  have  escaped  the 
sharp  eyes  of  sea-gulls. 

Some  of  his  hunting  ways  are  most  curious.  One 
winter  day,  in  prowling  along  the  beach,  I  approached 
the  spot  where  a  day  or  two  before  I  had  been  shoot- 
ing whistlers  (golden-eye  ducks)  over  decoys.  The 
blind  had  been  made  by  digging  a  hole  in  the 
sand.  In  the  bottom  was  an  armful  of  dry  seaweed, 
to  keep  one's  toes  warm,  and  just  behind  the  stand 
was  the  stump  of  a  ship's  mainmast,  the  relic  of  some 
old  storm  and  shipwreck,  cast  up  by  the  tide. 

A  commotion  of  some  kind  was  going  on  in  the 
blind  as  I  drew  near.  Sand  and  bunches  of  seaweed 
were  hurled  up  at  intervals  to  be  swept  aside  by  the 
wind.  Instantly  I  dropped  out  of  sight  into  the  dead 
beach  grass  to  watch  and  listen.  Soon  a  white  head 
and  neck  bristled  up  from  behind  the  old  mast,  every 
feather  standing  straight  out  ferociously.  The  head 
was  perfectly  silent  a  moment,  listening ;  then  it 
twisted  completely  round  twice  so  as  to  look  in  every 
direction.  A  moment  later  it  had  disappeared,  and 
the  seaweed  was  flying  again. 

There  was  a  prize  in  the  old  blind  evidently.     But 


Snowy   Visitors.  1 7 1 

what  was  he  doing  there  ?  Till  then  I  had  supposed 
that  the  owl  always  takes  his  game  from  the  wing. 
Farther  along  the  beach  was  a  sand  bluff  overlooking 
the  proceedings.  I  gained  it  after  a  careful  stalk, 
crept  to  the  edge,  and  looked  over.  Down  in  the  blind 
a  big  snowy  owl  was  digging  away  like  a  Trojan,  tear- 
ing out  sand  and  seaweed  with  his  great  claws,  first 
one  foot,  then  the  other,  like  a  hungry  hen,  and  send- 
ing it  up  in  showers  behind  him  over  the  old  mast. 
Every  few  moments  he  would  stop  suddenly,  bristle 
up  all  his  feathers  till  he  looked  comically  big  and 
fierce,  take  a  look  out  over  the  log  and  along  the 
beach,  then  fall  to  digging  again  furiously. 

I  suppose  that  the  object  of  this  bristling  up  before 
each  observation  was  to  strike  terror  into  the  heart  of 
any  enemy  that  might  be  approaching  to  surprise  him 
at  his  unusual  work.  It  is  an  owl  trick.  Wounded 
birds  always  use  it  when  approached. 

And  the  object  of  the  digging  ?  That  was  perfectly 
evident.  A  beach  rat  had  jumped  down  into  the  blind, 
after  some  fragments  of  lunch,  undoubtedly,  and  being 
unable  to  climb  out,  had  started  to  tunnel  up  to  the 
surface.  The  owl  heard  him  at  work,  and  started  a 
stern  chase.  He  won,  too,  for  right  in  the  midst  of  a 
fury  of  seaweed  he  shot  up  with  the  rat  in  his  claws 
—  so  suddenly  that  he  almost  escaped  me.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  storm  and  his  underground  digging, 


172  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

he  surely  would  have  heard  me  long  before  I  could 
get  near  enough  to  see  what  he  was  doing;  for  his 
eyes  and  ears  are  wonderfully  keen. 
•  In  his  southern  visits,  or  perhaps  on  the  ice  fields 
of  the  Arctic  ocean,  he  has  discovered  a  more  novel 
way  of  procuring  his  food  than  digging  for  it.  He 
has  turned  fisherman  and  learned  to  fish.  Once  only 
have  I  seen  him  get  his  dinner  in  this  way.  It  was 
on  the  north  shore  of  Nantucket,  one  day  in  the  win- 
ter of  1890-91,  when  the  remarkable  flight  of  white 
owls  came  down  from  the  north.  The  chord  of  the 
bay  was  full  of  floating  ice,  and  swimming  about  the 
shoals  were  thousands  of  coots.  While  watching 
the  latter  through  my  field-glass,  I  noticed  a  snowy 
owl  standing  up  still  and  straight  on  the  edge  of  a 
big  ice  cake.  "  Now  what  is  that  fellow  doing  there  ?  " 
I  thought.  —  "I  know!  He  is  trying  to  drift  down 
close  to  that  flock  of  coots  before  they  see  him." 

That  was  interesting ;  so  I  sat  down  on  a  rock  to 
watch.  Whenever  I  took  my  eyes  from  him  a  moment, 
it  was  difficult  to  find  him  again,  so  perfectly  did  his 
plumage  blend  with  the  white  ice  upon  which  he  stood 
motionless. 

But  he  was  not  after  the  coots.  I  saw  him  lean 
forward  suddenly  and  plunge  a  foot  into  the  water. 
Then,  when  he  hopped  back  from  the  edge,  and 
appeared  to  be  eating  something,  it  dawned  upon  me 


Snowy   Visitors.  173 

that  he  was  fishing  —  and  fishing  like  a  true  sports- 
man, out  on  the  ice  alone,  with  only  his  own  skill  to 
depend  upon.  In  a  few  minutes  he  struck  again,  and 
this  time  rose  with  a  fine  fish,  which  he  carried  to  the 
shore  to  devour  at  leisure. 

For  a  long  time  that  fish  was  to  me  the  most  puz- 
zling thing  in  the  whole  incident ;  for  at  that  season 
no  fish  are  to  be  found,  except  in  .deep  water  off  shore. 
Some  weeks  later  I  learned  that,  just  previous  to  the 
incident,  several  fishermen's  dories,  with  full  fares,  had 
been  upset  on  the  east  side  of  the  island  when  trying 
to  land  through  a  heavy  surf.  The  dead  fish  had 
been  carried  around  by  the  tides,  and  the  owl  had 
been  deceived  into  showing  his  method  of  fishing. 
Undoubtedly,  in  his  northern  home,  when  the  ice 
breaks  up  and  the  salmon  are  running,  he  goes  fish- 
ing from  an  ice  cake  as  a  regular  occupation. 

The  owl  lit  upon  a  knoll,  not  two  hundred  yards 
from  where  I  sat  motionless,  and  gave  me  a  good 
opportunity  of  watching  him  at  his  meal.  He  treated 
the  fish  exactly  as  he  would  have  treated  a  rat  or  duck  : 
stood  on  it  with  one  foot,  gripped  the  long  claws  of 
the  other  through  it,  and  tore  it  to  pieces  savagely,  as 
one  would  a  bit  of  paper.  The  beak  was  not  used, 
except  to  receive  the  pieces,  which  were  conveyed  up 
to  it  by  his  foot,  as  a  parrot  eats.  He  devoured  every- 
thing—  fins,  tail,  skin,  head,  and  most  of  the  bones, 


174  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

in  great  hungry  mouthfuls.  Then  he  hopped  to  the 
top  of  the  knoll,  sat  up  straight,  puffed  out  his  feath- 
ers to  look  big,  and  went  to  sleep.  But  with  the  first 
slight  movement  I  made  to  creep  nearer,  he  was  wide 
awake  and  flew  to  a  higher  point.  Such  hearing  is 
simply  marvelous. 

The  stomach  of  an  owl  is  peculiar,  there  being  no 
intermediate  crop,  as  in  other  birds.  Every  part  of 
his  prey  small  enough  (and  the  mouth  and  throat  of 
an  owl  are  large  out  of  all  proportion)  is  greedily  swal- 
lowed. Long  after  the  flesh  is  digested,  feathers,  fur, 
and  bones  remain  in  the  stomach,  softened  by  acids, 
till  everything  is  absorbed  that  can  afford  nourish- 
ment, even  to  the  quill  shafts,  and  the  ends  and  marrow 
of  bones.  The  dry  remains  are  then  rolled  into  large 
pellets  by  the  stomach,  and  disgorged. 

This,  by  the  way,  suggests  the  best  method  of  find- 
ing an  owl's  haunts.  It  is  to  search,  not  overhead, 
but  on  the  ground  under  large  trees,  till  a  pile  of  these 
little  balls,  of  dry  feathers  and  hair  and  bones,  reveals 
the  nest  or  roosting  place  above. 

It  seems  rather  remarkable  that  my  fisherman-owl 
did  not  make  a  try  at  the  coots  that  were  so  plenty 
about  him.  Rarely,  I  think,  does  he  attempt  to  strike 
a  bird  of  any  kind  in  the  daytime.  His  long  training 
at  the  north,  where  the  days  are  several  months  long, 
has  adapted  his  eyes  to  seeing  perfectly,  both  in  sun- 


Snowy   Visitors.  175 

shine  and  in  darkness ;  and  with  us  he  spends  the 
greater  part  of  each  day  hunting  along  the  beaches. 
The  birds  at  such  times  are  never  molested.  He 
seems  to  know  that  he  is  not  good  at  dodging ;  that 
they  are  all  quicker  than  he,  and  are  not  to  be  caught 
napping.  And  the  birds,  even  the  little  birds,  have 
no  fear  of  him  in  the  sunshine ;  though  they  shiver 
themselves  to  sleep  when  they  think  of  him  at  night. 

I  have  seen  the  snowbirds  twittering  contentedly 
near  him.  Once  I  saw  him  fly  out  to  sea  in  the  midst 
of  a  score  of  gulls,  which  paid  no  attention  to  him.  At 
another  time  I  saw  him  fly  over  a  large  flock  of  wild 
ducks  that  were  preening  themselves  in  the  grass. 
He  kept  straight  on ;  and  the  ducks,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  merely  stopped  their  toilet  for  an  instant,  and 
turned  up  one  eye  so  as  to  see  him  better.  Had  it 
been  dusk,  the  whole  flock  would  have  shot  up  into 
the  air  at  the  first  startled  quack  —  all  but  one,  which 
would  have  stayed  with  the  owl. 

His  favorite  time  for  hunting  is  the  hour  after  dusk, 
or  just  before  daylight,  when  the  birds  are  restless  on 
the  roost.  No  bird  is  safe  from  him  then.  The  fierce 
eyes  search  through  every  tree  and  bush  and  bunch 
of  grass.  The  keen  ears  detect  every  faintest  chirp, 
or  rustle,  or  scratching  of  tiny  claws  on  the  roost. 
Nothing  that  can  be  called  a  sound  escapes  them. 
The  broad,  soft  wings  tell  no  tale  of  his  presence,  and 


176  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

his  swoop   is  swift  and   sure.     He  utters  no  sound. 
Like  a  good  Ninirod  he  hunts  silently. 

The  flight  of  an  owl,  noiseless  as  the  sweep  of  a 
cloud  shadow,  is  the  most  remarkable  thing  about 
him.  The  wings  are  remarkably  adapted  to  the  silent 
movement  that  is  essential  to  surprising  birds  at  dusk. 
The  feathers  are  long  and  soft.  The  laminae  extend- 
ing from  the  wing  quills,  instead  of  ending  in  the 
sharp  feather  edge  of  other  birds,  are  all  drawn  out  to 
fine  hair  points,  through  which  the  air  can  make  no 
sound  as  it  rushes  in  the  swift  wing-beats.  The  whish 
of  a  duck's  wings  can  be  heard  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  on  a  still  night.  The  wings  of  an  eagle  rustle 
like  silk  in  the  wind  as  he  mounts  upward.  A  sparrow's 
wings  flutter  or  whir  as  he  changes  his  flight.  Every 
one  knows  the  startled  rush  of  a  quail  or  grouse.  But 
no  ear  ever  heard  the  passing  of  a  great  owl,  spread- 
ing his  five-foot  wings  in  rapid  flight. 

He  knows  well,  however,  when  to  vary  his  program. 
Once  I  saw  him  hovering  at  dusk  over  some  wild 
land  covered  with  bushes  and  dead  grass,  a  favorite 
winter  haunt  of  meadow-larks.  His  manner  showed 
that  he  knew  his  game  was  near.  He  kept  hovering 
over  a  certain  spot,  swinging  off  noiselessly  to  right 
or  left,  only  to  return  again.  Suddenly  he  struck  his 
wings  twice  over  his  head  with  a  loud  flap,  and 
swooped  instantly.  It  was  a  clever  trick.  The  bird 


Snowy   Visitors.  1 7  7 

beneath  had  been  waked  by  the  sound,  or  startled 
into  turning  his  head.  With  the  first  movement  the 
owl  had  him. 

All  owls  have  the  habit  of  sitting  still  upon  some 
high  point  which  harmonizes  with  the  general  color 
of  their  feathers,  and  swooping  upon  any  sound  or 
movement  that  indicates  game.  The  long-eared,  or 
eagle-owl  invariably  selects  a  dark  colored  stub,  on 
top  of  which  he  appears  as  a  part  of  the  tree  itself, 
and  is  seldom  noticed;  while  the  snowy  owl,  whose 
general  color  is  soft  gray,  will  search  out  a  birch  or 
a  lightning-blasted  stump,  and  sitting  up  still  and 
straight,  so  hide  himself  in  plain  sight  that  it  takes 
a  good  eye  to  find  him. 

The  swooping  habit  leads  them  into  queer  mistakes 
sometimes.  Two  or  three  times,  when  sitting  or 
lying  still  in  the  woods  watching  for  birds,  my  head 
has  been  mistaken  for  a  rat  or  squirrel,  or  some 
other  furry  quadruped,  by  owls,  which  swooped  and 
brushed  me  with  their  wings,  and  once  left  the  marks 
of  their  claws,  before  discovering  their  mistake. 

Should  any  boy  reader  ever  have  the  good  fortune 
to  discover  one  of  these  rare  birds  some  winter  day 
in  tramping  along  the  beaches,  and  wish  to  secure 
him  as  a  specimen,  let  him  not  count  on  the  old  idea 
that  an  owl  cannot  see  in  the  daytime.  On  the  con- 
trary, let  him  proceed  exactly  as  he  would  in  stalking 


178  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

a  deer :  get  out  of  sight,  and  to  leeward,  if  possible  ; 
then  take  every  advantage  of  bush  and  rock  and 
beach-grass  to  creep  within  range,  taking  care  to 
advance  only  when  his  eyes  are  turned  away,  and 
remembering  that  his  ears  are  keen  enough  to  de- 
tect the  passing  of  a  mouse  in  the  grass  from  an 
incredible  distance. 

Sometimes  the  crows  find  one  of  these  snowy  visi- 
tors on  the  beach,  and  make  a  great  fuss  and  racket, 
as  they  always  do  when  an  owl  is  in  sight.  At  such 
times  he  takes  his  stand  under  a  bank,  or  in  the  lee 
of  a  rock,  where  the  crows  cannot  trouble  him  from 
behind,  and  sits  watching  them  fiercely.  Woe  be  to 
the  one  that  ventures  too  near.  A  plunge,  a  grip  of 
his  claw,  a  weak  caw,  and  it 's  all  over.  That  seems 
to  double  the  crows'  frenzy  —  and  that  is  the  one 
moment  when  you  can  approach  rapidly  from  behind. 
But  you  must  drop  flat  when  the  crows  perceive  you ; 
for  the  owl  is  sure  to  take  a  look  around  for  the  cause 
of  their  sudden  alarm.  If  he  sees  nothing  suspicious 
he  will  return  to  his  shelter  to  eat  his  crow,  or  just  to 
rest  his  sensitive  ears  after  all  the  pother.  A  quarter- 
mile  away  the  crows  sit  silent,  watching  you  and  him. 

And  now  a  curious  thing  happens.  The  crows, 
that  a  moment  ago  were  clamoring  angrily  about 
their  enemy,  watch  with  a  kind  of  intense  interest  as 
you  creep  towards  him.  Half  way  to  the  rock  behind 


Snowy   Visitors.  1 79 

which  he  is  hiding,  they  guess  your  purpose,  and  a 
low  rapid  chatter  begins  among  them.  One  would 
think  that  they  would  exult  in  seeing  him  surprised 
and  killed  ;  but  that  is  not  crow  nature.  They  would 
gladly  worry  the  owl  to  death  if  they  could,  but  they 
will  not  stand  by  and  see  him  slain  by  a  common 
enemy.  The  chatter  ceases  suddenly.  Two  or  three 
swift  fliers  leave  the  flock,  circle  around  you,  and 
speed  over  the  rock,  uttering  short  notes  of  alarm. 
With  the  first  sharp  note,  which  all  birds  seem  to 
understand,  the  owl  springs  into  the  air,  turns,  sees 
you,  and  is  off  up  the  beach.  The  crows  rush  after 
him  with  crazy  clamor,  and  speedily  drive  him  to 
cover  again.  But  spare  yourself  more  trouble.  It 
is  useless  to  try  stalking  any  game  while  the  crows 
are  watching. 

Sometimes  you  can  drive  or  ride  quite  near  to  one 
of  these  birds,  the  horse  apparently  removing  all  his 
suspicion.  But  if  you  are  on  foot,  take  plenty  of 
time  and  care  and  patience,  and  shoot  your  prize  on 
the  first  stalk  if  possible.  Once  alarmed,  he  will  lead 
you  a  long  "chase,  and  most  likely  escape  in  the  end. 

I  learned  the  wisdom  of  this  advice  in  connection 
with  the  first  snowy  owl  I  had  ever  met  outside  a 
museum.  I  surprised  him  early  one  winter  morning 
eating  a  brant,  which  he  had  caught  asleep  on  the 
shore.  He  saw  me,  and  kept  making  short  flights 


l8o  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

from  point  to  point  in  a  great  circle  —  five  miles,  per- 
haps, and  always  in  the  open  —  evidently  loath  to 
abandon  his  feast  to  the  crows ;  while  I  followed  with 
growing  wonder  and  respect,  trying  every  device  of 
the  still  hunter  to  creep  within  range.  That  was  the 
same  owl  which  I  last  saw  at  dusk,  flying  straight  out 
to  sea  among  the  gulls. 


XIV. 

'THHE  Christmas  carol,  sung  by  a  chorus  of  fresh 
children's  voices,  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect 
expression  of  the  spirit  of  Christmastide.  Especially 
is  this  true  of  the  old  English  and  German  carols, 
which  seem  to  grow  only  sweeter,  more  mellow,  more 
perfectly  expressive  of  the  love  and  good-will  that 
inspired  them,  as  the  years  go  by.  Yet  always  at 
Christmas  time  there  is  with  me  the  memory  of  one 
carol  sweeter  than  all,  which  was  sung  to  me  alone 
by  a  little  minstrel  from  the  far  north,  with  the  wind 
in  the  pines  humming  a  soft  accompaniment. 

Doubtless  many  readers  have  sometimes  seen  in 
winter  flocks  of  stranger  birds  —  fluffy  gray  visitors, 
almost  as  large  as  a  robin  —  flying  about  the  lawns 
with  soft  whistling  calls,  or  feeding  on  the  ground,  so 
tame  and  fearless  that  they  barely  move  aside  as  you 

181 


1 82  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

approach.  The  beak  is  short  and  thick ;  the  back  of 
the  head  and  a  large  patch  just  above  the  tail  are  gol- 
den brown ;  and  across  the  wings  are  narrow7  double 
bars  of  white.  All  the  rest  is  soft  gray,  dark  above  and 
light  beneath.  If  you  watch  them  on  the  ground,  you 
will  see  that  they  have  a  curious  way  of  moving  about, 
like  a  golden-winged  woodpecker  in  the  same  position. 
Sometimes  they  put  one  foot  before  the  other,  in  a 
funny  little  attempt  at  a  dignified  walk,  like  the  black- 
birds; again  they  hop  like  a  robin,  but  much  more 
'awkwardly,  as  if  they  were  not  accustomed  to  walking, 
and  did  not  quite  know  how  to  use  their  feet  —  which 
is  quite  true. 

The  birds  are  pine-grosbeaks,  and  are  somewhat 
irregular  winter  visitors  from  the  far  north.  Only 
when  the  cold  is  most  severe,  and  the  snow  lies  deep 
about  Hudson  Bay,  do  they  leave  their  nesting  places 
to  spend  a  few  weeks  in  bleak  New  England  as  a  win- 
ter resort.  Their  stay  with  us  is  short  and  uncertain. 
Long  ere  the  first  bluebird  has  whistled  to  us  from 
the  old  fence  rail  that,  if  we  please,  spring  is  coming, 
the  grosbeaks  are  whistling  of  spring,  and  singing 
their  love  songs  in  the  forests  of  Labrador. 

A  curious  thing  about  the  flocks  we  see  in  winter 
is  that  they  are  composed  almost  entirely  of  females. 
The  male  bird  is  very  rare  with  us.  You  can  tell 
him  instantly  by  his  brighter  color  and  his  beautiful 


A  Christmas  Carol.  183 

crimson  breast.  Sometimes  the  flocks  contain  a  few 
young  males,  but  until  the  first  mating  season  has 
tipped  their  breast  feathers  with  deep  crimson  they 
are  almost  indistinguishable  from  their  sober  colored 
companions. 

This  crimson  breast  shield,  by  the  way,  is  the  family 
mark  or  coat  of  arms  of  the  grosbeaks,  just  as  the  scar- 
let crest  marks  all  the  woodpeckers.  And  if  you  ask  a 
Micmac,  deep  in  the  woods,  how  the  grosbeak  got  his 
shield,  he  may  tell  you  a  story  that  will  interest  you 
as  did  the  legend  of  Hiawatha  and  the  woodpecker 
in  your  childhood  days. 

If  the  old  male,  with  his  proud  crimson,  be  rare  with 
us,  his  beautiful  song  is  still  more  so.  Only  in  the 
deep  forests,  by  the  lonely  rivers  of  the  far  north,  where 
no  human  ear  ever  hears,  does  he  greet  the  sunrise 
from  the  top  of  some  lofty  spruce.  There  also  he  pours 
into  the  ears  of  his  sober  little  gray  wife  the  sweetest 
love  song  of  the  birds.  It  is  a  flood  of  soft  warbling 
notes,  tinkling  like  a  brook  deep  under  the  ice,  tum- 
bling over  each  other  in  a  quiet  ecstasy  of  harmony ; 
mellow  as  the  song  of  the  hermit-thrush,  but  much 
softer,  as  if  he  feared  lest  any  should  hear  but  her  to 
whom  he  sang.  Those  who  know  the  music  of  the 
rose-breasted  grosbeak  (not  his  robin-like  song  of 
spring,  but  the  exquisitely  soft  warble  to  his  brood- 
ing mate)  may  multiply  its  sweetness  indefinitely, 


1 84  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

and   so   form    an    idea   of   what    the   pine-grosbeak's 
song  is  like. 

But  sometimes  he  forgets  himself  in  his  winter 
visit,  and  sings  as  other  .birds  do,  just  because  his 
world  is  bright ;  and  then,  once  in  a  lifetime,  a  New 
England  bird  lover  hears  him,  and  remembers;  and 
regrets  for  the  rest  of  his  life  that  the  grosbeak's 
northern  country  life  has  made  him  so  shy  a  visitor. 

One  Christmas  morning,  a  few  years  ago,  the  new- 
fallen  snow  lay  white  and  pure  over  all  the  woods  and 
fields.  It  was  soft  and  clinging  as  it  fell  on  Christ- 
mas eve.  Now  every  old  wall  and  fence  was  a  carved 
bench  of  gleaming  white ;  every  post  and  stub  had  a 
soft  white  robe  and  a  tall  white  hat ;  and  every  little 
bush  and  thicket  was  a  perfect  fairyland  of  white 
arches  and  glistening  columns,  and  dark  grottoes 
walled  about  with  delicate  frostwork  of  silver  and 
jewels.  And  then  the  glory,  dazzling  beyond  all  words, 
when  the  sun  rose  and  shone  upon  it ! 

Before  sunrise  I  was  out.  Soon  the  jumping  flight 
and  cheery  good-morning  of  a  downy  woodpecker  led 
me  to  an  old  field  with  scattered  evergreen  clumps. 
There  is  no  better  time  for  a  quiet  peep  at  the  birds 
than  the  morning  after  a  snow-storm,  and  no  better 
place  than  the  evergreens.  If  you  can  find  them  at 
all  (which  is  not  certain,  for  they  have  mysterious 


A  Christmas  Carol.  185 

ways  of  disappearing  before  a  storm),  you  will  find 
them  unusually  quiet,  and  willing  to  bear  your  scrutiny 
indifferently,  instead  of  flying  off  into  deeper  coverts. 
I  had  scarcely  crossed  the  wall  when  I  stopped  at 
hearing  a  new  bird  song,  so  amazingly  sweet  that  it 
could  only  be  a  Christmas  message,  yet  so  out  of 
place  that  the  listener  stood  doubting  whether  his 
ears  were  playing  him  false,  wondering  whether  the 
music  or  the  landscape  would  not  suddenly  vanish  as 
an  unreal  thing.  The  song  was  continuous  —  a  soft 
melodious  warble,  full  of  sweetness  and  suggestion  ; 
but  suggestion  of  June  meadows  and  a  summer  sun- 
rise, rather  than  of  snow-packed  evergreens  and 
Christmastide.  To  add  to  the  unreality,  no  ear  could 
tell  where  the  song  came  from ;  its  own  muffled 
quality  disguised  the  source  perfectly.  I  searched  the 
trees  in  front ;  there  was  no  bird  there.  I  looked 
behind  ;  there  was  no  place  for  a  bird  to  sing.  I 
remembered  the  redstart,  how  he  calls  sometimes 
from  among  the  rocks,  and  refuses  to  show  himself, 
and  runs  and  hides  when  you  look  for  him.  I 
searched  the  wall ;  but  not  a  bird  track  marked  the 
snow.  All  the  while  the  wonderful  carol  went  on, 
now  in  the  air,  now  close  beside  me,  growing  more 
and  more  bewildering  as  I  listened.  It  took  me  a 
good  half-hour  to  locate  the  sound;  then  I  under- 
stood. 


1 86  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

Near  me  was  a  solitary  fir  tree  with  a  bushy  top. 
The  bird,  whoever  he  was,  had  gone  to  sleep  up  there, 
close  against  the  trunk,  as  birds  do,  for  protection. 
During  the  night  the  soft  snow  gathered  thicker  and 
thicker  upon  the  flexible  branches.  Their  tips  bent 
with  the  weight  till  they  touched  the  trunk  below, 
forming  a  green  bower,  about  which  the  snow  packed 
all  night  long,  till  it  was  completely  closed  in.  The 
bird  was  a  prisoner  inside,  and  singing  as  the  morning 
sun  shone  in  through  the  walls  of  his  prison-house. 

As  I  listened,  delighted  with  the  carol  and  the 
minstrel's  novel  situation,  a  mass  of  snow,  loosened 
by  the  sun,  slid  from  the  snow  bower,  and  a  pine- 
grosbeak  appeared  in  the  doorway.  A  moment  he 
seemed  to  look  about  curiously  over  the  new,  white, 
beautiful  world ;  then  he  hopped  to  the  topmost  twig 
and,  turning  his  crimson  breast  to  the  sunrise,  poured 
out  his  morning  song;  no  longer  muffled,  but  sweet 
and  clear  as  a  wood-thrush  bell  ringing  the  sunset. 

Once,  long  afterward,  I  heard  his  softer  love  song, 
and  found  his  nest  in  the  heart  of  a  New  Brunswick 
forest.  Till  then  it  was  not  known  that  he  ever  built 
south  of  Labrador.  But  even  that,  and  the  joy  of  dis- 
covery, lacked  the  charm  of  this  rare  sweet  carol, 
coming  all  unsought  and  unexpected,  as  good  things 
do,  while  our  own  birds  were  spending  the  Christmas 
time  and  singing  the  sunrise  in  Florida. 


XV.     MOOWEEN    THE    BEAR. 


VER  since  nursery  times 
Bruin  has  been  largely 
a  creature  of  imagina- 
tion.   He  dwells  there 
a    ferocious    beast, 
prowling     about    gloomy 
woods,  red  eyed  and  danger- 
ous, ready  to  rush  upon  the 
unwary  traveler  and  eat  him 
on  the  spot. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  we 
have  seen  him  out  of  imagi- 
nation. There  he  is  a  poor, 
tired,  clumsy  creature,  foot- 
sore and  dusty,  with  a  halter 
round  his  neck,  and  a  swarthy 
foreigner  to  make  his  life 
miserable.  At  the  word  he 

rises  to  his  hind  legs,  hunches  his  shoulders,  and  lunges 
awkwardly  round  in  a  circle,  while  the  foreigner  sings 
Horry,  horry,  dum-dum,  and  his  wife  passes  the  hat. 

187 


1 88  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

We  children  pity  the  bear,  as  we  watch,  and  forget 
the  other  animal  that  frightens  us  when  near  the 
woods  at  night.  But  he  passes  on  at  last,  with  a 
troop  of  boys  following  to  the  town  limits.  Next  day 
Bruin  comes  back,  and  lives  in  imagination  as  ugly 
and  frightful  as  ever. 

But  Mooween  the  Bear,  as  the  northern  Indians 
call  him,  the  animal  that  lives  up  in  the  woods  of 
Maine  and  Canada,  is  a  very  different  kind  of  creature. 
He  is  big  and  glossy  black,  with  long  white  teeth 
and  sharp  black  claws,  like  the  imagination  bear. 
Unlike  him,  however,  he  is  shy  and  wild,  and  timid  as 
any  rabbit.  When  you  camp  in  the  wilderness  at 
night,  the  rabbit  will  come  out  of  his  form  in  the 
ferns  to  pull  at  your  shoe,  or  nibble  a  hole  in  the  salt 
bag,  while  you  sleep.  He  will  play  twenty  pranks 
under  your  very  eyes.  But  if  you  would  see  Mooween, 
you  must  camp  many  summers,  and  tramp  many  a 
weary  mile  through  the  big  forests  before  catching  a 
glimpse  of  him,  or  seeing  any  trace  save  the  deep 
tracks,  like  a  barefoot  boy's,  left  in  some  soft  bit  of 
earth  in  his  hurried  flight. 

Mooween's  ears  are  quick,  and  his  nose  very  keen. 
The  slightest  warning  from  either  will  generally  send 
him  off  to  the  densest  cover  or  the  roughest  hillside 
in  the  neighborhood.  Silently  as  a  black  shadow  he 
glides  away,  if  he  has  detected  your  approach  from  a 


Mooween  the  Bear.  189 

distance.  But  if  surprised  and  frightened,  he  dashes 
headlong  through  the  brush  with  crash  of  branches, 
and  bump  of  fallen  logs,  and  volleys  of  dirt  and  dead 
wood  flung  out  behind  him  as  he  digs  his  toes  into 
the  hillside  in  his  frantic  haste  to  be  away. 

In  the  first  startled  instant  of  such  an  encounter, 
one  thinks  there  must  be  twenty  bears  scrambling  up 
the  hill.  And  if  you  should  perchance  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  game,  you  will  be  conscious  chiefly  of  a  funny 
little  pair  of  wrinkled  black  feet,  turned  up  at  you  so 
rapidly  that  they  actually  seem  to  twinkle  through  a 
cloud  of  flying  loose  stuff. 

That  was  the  way  in  which  I  first  met  Mooween. 
He  was  feeding  peaceably  on  blueberries,  just  stuffing 
himself  with  the  ripe  fruit  that  tinged  with  blue  a 
burned  hillside,  when  I  came  round  the  turn  of  a  deer 
path.  There  he  was,  the  mighty,  ferocious  beast  — 
and  my  only  weapon  a  trout-rod ! 

We  discovered  each  other  at  the  same  instant. 
Words  can  hardly  measure  the  mutual  consternation. 
I  felt  scared ;  and  in  a  moment  it  flashed  upon  me 
that  he  looked  so.  This  last  observation  was  like  a 
breath  of  inspiration.  It  led  me  to  make  a  demon- 
stration before  he  should  regain  his  wits.  I  jumped 
forward  with  a  flourish,  and  threw  my  hat  at  him. — 

Boo  !  said  I. 

Hoof,  woof !  said   Mooween.     And  away  he  went 


I  go  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

up  the  hill  in  a  desperate  scramble,  with  loose  stones 
rattling,  and  the  bottoms  of  his  feet  showing  con- 
stantly through  the  volley  of  dirt  and  chips  flung  out 
behind  him. 

That  killed  the  fierce  imagination  bear  of  childhood 
days  deader  than  any  bullet  could  have  done,  and 
convinced  me  that  Mooween  is  at  heart  a  timid  crea- 
ture. Still,  this  was  a  young  bear,  as  was  also  one 
other  upon  whom  I  tried  the  same  experiment,  with 
the  same  result.  Had  he  been  older  and  bigger,  it 
might  have  been  different.  In  that  case  I  have  found 
that  a  good  rule  is  to  go  your  own  way  unobtru- 
sively, leaving  Mooween  to  his  devices.  All  animals, 
whether  wild  or  domestic,  respect  a  man  who  neither 
fears  nor  disturbs  them. 

Mooween's  eyes  are  his  weak  point.  They  are 
close  together,  and  seem  to  focus  on  the  ground  a  few 
feet  in  front  of  his  nose.  At  twenty  yards  to  leeward 
he  can  never  tell  you  from  a  stump  or  a  caribou, 
should  you  chance  to  be  standing  still. 

If  fortunate  enough  to  find  the  ridge  where  he 
sleeps  away  the  long  summer  days,  one  is  almost  sure 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  him  by  watching  on  the  lake 
below.  It  is  necessary  only  to  sit  perfectly  still  in 
your  canoe  among  the  water-grasses  near  shore. 
When  near  a  lake,  a  bear  will  almost  invariably  come 
down  about  noontime  to  sniff  carefully  all  about,  and 


Mooween  the  Bear.  191 

lap  the  water,  and  perhaps  find  a  dead  fish  before 
going  back  for  his  afternoon  sleep. 

Four  or  five  times  I  have  sat  thus  in  my  canoe 
while  Mooween  passed  close  by,  and  never  suspected 
my  presence  till  a  chirp  drew  his  attention.  It  is 
curious  at  such  times,  when  there  is  no  wind  to  bring 
the  scent  to  his  keen  nose,  to  see  him  turn  his  head  to 
one  side,  and  wrinkle  his  forehead  in  the  vain  endeavor 
to  make  out  the  curious  object  there  in  the  grass.  At 
last  he  rises  on  his  hind  legs,  and  stares  long  and 
intently.  It  seems  as  if  he  must  recognize  you,  with 
his  nose  pointing  straight  at  you,  his  eyes  looking 
straight  into  yours.  But  he  drops  on  all  fours  again, 
and  glides  silently  into  the  thick  bushes  that  fringe 
the  shore. 

Don't  stir  now,  nor  make  the  least  s'ound.  He 
is  in  there,  just  out  of  sight,  sitting  on  his  haunches, 
using  nose  and  ears  to  catch  your  slightest  message. 

Ten  minutes  pass  by  in  intense  silence.  Down  on 
the  shore,  fifty  yards  below,  a  slight  swaying  of  the 
bilberry  bushes  catches  your  eye.  That  surely  is  not 
the  bear!  There  has  not  been  a  sound  since  he  dis- 
appeared. A  squirrel  could  hardly  creep  through  that 
underbrush  without  noise  enough  to  tell  where  he 
was.  But  the  bushes  sway  again,  and  Mooween  reap- 
pears suddenly  for  another  long  look  at  the  suspicious 
object.  Then  he  turns  and  plods  his  way  along 


1 92  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

shore,  rolling  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  com- 
pletely mystified. 

Now  swing  your  canoe  well  out  into  the  lake,  and 
head  him  off  on  the  point,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below. 
Hold  the  canoe  quiet  just  outside  the  lily  pads  by 
grasping  a  few  tough  stems,  and  sit  low.  This  time 
the  big  object  catches  Mooween's  eye  as  he  rounds 
the  point ;  and  you  have  only  to  sit  still  to  see  him 
go  through  the  same  maneuvers  with  greater  mysti- 
fication than  before. 

Once,  however,  he  varied  his  program,  and  gave 
me  a  terrible  start,  letting  me  know  for  a  moment 
just  how  it  feels  to  be  hunted,  at  the  same  time 
showing  with  what  marvelous  stillness  he  can  glide 
through  the  thickest  cover  when  he  chooses. 

It  was  early  evening  on  a  forest  lake.  The  water 
lay  like  a  great  mirror,  with  the  sunset  splendor  still 
upon  it.  The  hush  of  twilight  was  over  the  wilder- 
ness. Only  the  hermit-thrushes  sang  wild  and  sweet 
from  a  hundred  dead  spruce  tops. 

I  was  drifting  about,  partly  in  the  hope  to  meet 
Mooween,  whose  tracks  were  very  numerous  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  lake,  when  I  heard  him  walking  in 
the  shallow  water.  Through  the  glass  I  made  him 
out  against  the  shore,  as  he  plodded  along  in  my 
direction. 

I  had  long  been  curious  to  know  how  near  a  bear 


Mooween  the  Bear.  193 

would  come  to  a  man  without  discovering  him.  Here 
was  an  opportunity.  The  wind  at  sunset  had  been 
in  my  favor ;  now  there  was  not  the  faintest  breath 
stirring. 

Hiding  the  canoe,  I  sat  down  in  the  sand  on  a 
little  point,  where  dense  bushes  grew  down  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  water's  edge.  Head  and  shoulders 
were  in  plain  sight  above  the  water-grass.  My  inten- 
tions were  wholly  peaceable,  notwithstanding  the  rifle 
that  lay  across  my  knees.  It  was  near  the  mating 
season,  when  Mooween's  temper  is  often  dangerous; 
and  one  felt  much  more  comfortable  with  the  chill  of 
the  cold  iron  in  his  hands. 

Mooween  came  rapidly  along  the  shore  meanwhile, 
evidently  anxious  to  reach  the  other  end  of  the  lake. 
In  the  mating  season  bears  use  the  margins  of  lakes 
and  streams  as  natural  highways.  As  he  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  I  gazed  with  a  kind  of  fascination  at  the 
big  unconscious  brute.  He  carried  his  head  lo\v,  and 
dropped  his  feet  with  a  heavy  splash  into  the  shallow 
water. 

At  twenty  yards  he  stopped  as  if  struck,  with  head 
up  and  one  paw  lifted,  sniffing  suspiciously.  Even 
then  he  did  not  see  me,  though  only  the  open  shore 
lay  between  us.  He  did  not  use  his  eyes  at  all,  but 
laid  his  great  head  back  on  his  shoulders  and  sniffed 
in  every  direction,  rocking  his  brown  muzzle  up  and 


1 94  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

• 

down  the  while,  so  as  to  take  in  every  atom  from 
the  tainted  air. 

A  few  slow  careful  steps  forward,  and  he  stopped 
again,  looked  straight  into  my  eyes,  then  beyond  me 
towards  the  lake,  all  the  while  sniffing.  I  was  still 
only  part  of  the  shore.  Yet  he  was  so  near  that  I 
caught  the  gleam  of  his  eyes,  and  saw  the  nostrils 
swell  and  the  muzzle  twitch  nervously. 

Another  step  or  two,  and  he  planted  his  fore  feet 
firmly.  The  long  hairs  began  to  rise  along  his  spine, 
and  under  his  wrinkled  chops  was  a 'flash  of  white 
teeth.  Still  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  motionless 
object  there  in  the  grass.  He  looked,  rather  out  on 
the  lake.  Then  he  glided  into  the  brush  and  was 
lost  to  sight  and  hearing. 

He  was  so  close  that  I  scarcely  dared  breathe  as  I 
waited,  expecting  him  to  come  out  farther  down  the 
shore.  Five  minutes  passed  without  the  slightest 
sound  to  indicate  his  whereabouts,  though  I  was 
listening  intently  in  the  dead  hush  that  was  on  the 
lake.  All  the  while  I  smelled  him  strongly.  One 
can  smell  a  bear  almost  as  far  as  he  can  a  deer,  though 
the  scent  does  not  cling  so  long  to  the  underbrush. 

A  bush  swayed  slightly  below  where  he  had  dis- 
appeared. I  was  watching  it  closely  when  some 
sudden  warning  —  I  know  not  what,  for  I  did  not 
hear  but  only  felt  it  —  made  me  turn  my  head  quickly. 


Mooween  the  Bear.  195 

There,  not  six  feet  away,  a  huge  head  and  shoulders 
were  thrust  out  of  the  bushes  on  the  bank,  and  a  pair 
of  gleaming  eyes  were  peering  intently  down  upon 
me  in  the  grass.  He  had  been  watching  me  at  arm's 
length  probably  two  or  three  minutes.  Had  a  muscle 
moved  in  all  that  time,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would 
have  sprung  upon  me.  As  it  was,  who  can  say  what 
was  passing  behind  that  curious,  half-puzzled,  half- 
savage  gleam  in  his  eyes? 

He  drew  quickly  back  as  a  sudden  movement  on 
my  part  threw  the  rifle  into  position.  A  few  minutes 
later  I  heard  the  snap  of  a  rotten  twig  some  distance 
away.  Not  another  sound  told  of  his  presence  till  he 
broke  out  onto  the  shore,  fifty  yards  above,  and  went 
steadily  on  his  way  up  the  lake. 

Mooween  is  something  of  a  humorist  in  his  own 
way.  When  not  hungry  he  will  go  out  of  his  way  to 
frighten  a  bullfrog  away  from  his  sun-bath  on  the 
shore,  for  no  other  purpose,  evidently,  than  just  to  see 
him  jump.  Watching  him  thus  amusing  himself  one 
afternoon,  I  was  immensely  entertained  by  seeing  him 
turn  his  head  to  one  side,  and  wrinkle  his  eyebrows, 
as  each  successive  frog  said  kedunk,  and  went  splash- 
ing away  over  the  lily  pads. 

A  pair  of  cubs  are  playful  as  young  foxes,  while 
their  extreme  awkwardness  makes  them  a  dozen  times 


1 96  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

more  comical.  Simmo,  my  Indian  guide,  tells  me  that 
the  cubs  will  sometimes  run  away  and  hide  when 
they  hear  the  mother  bear  returning.  No  amount  of 
coaxing  or  of  anxious  fear  on  her  part  will  bring  them 
back,  till  she  searches  diligently  to  find  them. 

Once  only  have  I  had  opportunity  to  see  the  young 
at  play.  There  were  two  of  them,  nearly  full-grown, 
with  the  mother.  The  most  curious  thing  was  to  see 
them  stand  up  on  their  hind  legs  and  cuff  each  other 
soundly,  striking  and  warding  like  trained  boxers. 
Then  they  would  lock  arms  and  wrestle  desperately 
till  one  was  thrown,  when  the  other  promptly  seized 
him  by  throat  or  paw,  arid  pretended  to  growl  fright- 
fully. * 

They  were  well  fed,  evidently,  and  full  of  good 
spirits  as  two  boys.  But  the  mother  was  cross  and 
out  of  sorts.  She  kept  moving  about  uneasily,  as  if 
the  rough  play  irritated  her  nerves.  Occasionally,  as 
she  sat  for  a  moment  with  hind  legs  stretched  out 
flat  and  fore  paws  planted  between  them,  one  of  the 
cubs  would  approach  and  attempt  some  monkey  play. 
A  sound  cuff  on  the  ear  invariably  sent  him  whimper- 
ing back  to  his  companion,  who  looked  droll  enough 
the  while,  sitting  with  his  tongue  out  and  his  head 
wagging  humorously  as  he  watched  the  experiment. 
It  was  getting  toward  the  time  of  year  when  she 
would  mate  again,  and  send  them  off  into  the  world 


MoGween  the  Bear. 

to  shift  for  themselves.  And  this  was  perhaps  their 
first  hard  discipline. 

Once  also  I  caught  an  old  bear  enjoying  himself 
in  a  curious  way.  It  was  one  intensely  hot  day,  in 
the  heart  of  a  New  Brunswick  wilderness.  Mooween 
came  out  onto  the  lake  shore  and  lumbered  along, 
twisting  uneasily  and  rolling  his  head  as  if  very  much 
distressed  by  the  heat.  I  followed  silently  close  behind 
in  my  canoe. 

Soon  he  came  to  a  cool  spot  under  the  alders, 
which  was  probably  what  he  was  looking  for.  A 
small  brook  made  an  eddy  there,  and  a  lot  of  drift- 
weed  had  collected  over  a  bed  of  soft  black  mud. 
The  stump  of  a  huge  cedar  leaned  out  over  it,  some 
four  or  five  feet  above  the  water. 

First  he  waded  in  to  try  the  temperature.  Then 
he  came  out  and  climbed  the  cedar  stump,  where  he 
sniffed  in  every  direction,  as  is  his  wont  before  lying 
down.  Satisfied  at  last,  he  balanced  himself  carefully 
and  gave  a  big  jump —  Oh,  so  awkwardly  !  —  with  legs 
out  flat,  and  paws  up,  and  mouth  open  as  if  he  were 
laughing  at  himself.  Down  he  came,  souse,  with  a 
tremendous  splash  that  sent  mud  and  water  flying  in 
every  direction.  And  with  a  deep  uff-guff  of  pure 
delight,  he  settled  himself  in  his  cool  bed  for  a  com- 
fortable nap. 

In  his  fondness  for  fish,  Mooween  has  discovered  an 


198  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

interesting  way  of  catching  them.  In  June  and  July 
immense  numbers  of  trout  and  salmon  run  up  the 
wilderness  rivers  on  their  way  to  the  spawning 
grounds.  Here  and  there,  on  small  streams,  are 
shallow  riffles,  where  large  fish  are  often  half  out  of 
water  as  they  struggle  up.  On  one  of  these  riffles 
Mooween  stations  himself  during  the  first  bright 
moonlight  nights  of  June,  when  the  run  of  fish  is 
largest  on  account  of  the  higher  tides  at  the  river 
mouth.  And  Mooween  knows,  as  well  as  any  other 
fisherman,  the  kind  of  night  on  which  to  go  fishing. 
He  knows  also  the  virtue  of  keeping  still.  As  a  big 
salmon  struggles  by,  Mooween  slips  a  paw  under  him, 
tosses  him  to  the  shore  by  a  dexterous  flip,  and  springs 
after  him  before  he  can  flounder  back. 

When  hungry,  Mooween  has  as  many  devices  as  a 
fox  for  getting  a  meal.  He  tries  flipping  frogs  from 
among  the  lily  pads  in  the  same  way  that  he  catches 
salmon.  That  failing,  he  takes  to  creeping  through 
the  water-grass,  like  a  mink,  and  striking  his  game 
dead  with  a  blow  of  his  paw. 

Or  he  finds  a  porcupine  loafing  through  the  woods, 
and  follows  him  about  to  throw  dirt  and  stones  at 
him,  carefully  refraining  from  touching  him  the  while, 
till  the  porcupine  rolls  himself  into  a  ball  of  bristling 
quills,  —  his  usual  method  of  defense.  Mooween 
slips  a  paw  under  him,  flips  him  against  a  tree  to  stun 


Mooween  the  Bear. 

him,  and  bites  him  in  the  belly,  where  there  are  no 
quills.  If  he  spies  the  porcupine  in  a  tree,  he  will 
climb  up,  if  he  is  a  young  bear,  and  try  to  shake  him 
off.  But  he  soon  learns  better,  and  saves  his  strength 
for  more  fruitful  exertions. 

Mooween  goes  to  the  lumber  camps  regularly  after 
his  winter  sleep  and,  breaking  in  through  door  or 
roof,  helps  himself  to  what  he  finds.  If  there  happens 
to  be  a  barrel  of  pork  there,  he  will  roll  it  into  the 
open  air,  if  the  door  is  wide  enough,  before  breaking 
in  the  head  with  a  blow  of  his  paw. 

Should  he  find  a  barrel  of  molasses  among  the 
stores,  his  joy  is  unbounded.  The  head  is  broken  in 
on  the  instant  and  Mooween  eats  till  he  is  surfeited. 
Then  he  lies  down  and  rolls  in  the  sticky  sweet,  to 
prolong  the  pleasure ;  and  stays  in  the  neighborhood 
till  every  drop  has  been  lapped  up. 

Lumbermen  have  long  since  learned  of  his  strength 
and  cunning  in  breaking  into  their  strong  camps. 
When  valuable  stores  are  left  in  the  woods,  they  are 
put  into  special  camps,  called  bear  camps,  where  doors 
and  roofs  are  fastened  with  chains  and  ingenious  log 
locks  to  keep  Mooween  out. 

Near  the  settlements  Mooween  speedily  locates  the 
sweet  apple  trees  among  the  orchards.  These  he 
climbs  by  night,  and  shakes  off  enough  apples  to  last 
him  for  several  visits.  Every  kind  of  domestic  animal 


2OO  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

is  game  for  him.  He  will  lie  at  the  edge  of  a  clearing 
for  hours,  with  the  patience  of  a  cat,  waiting  for  turkey 
or  sheep  or  pig  to  come  within  range  of  his  swift  rush. 

His  fondness  for  honey  is  well  known.  When  he 
has  discovered  a  rotten  tree  in  which  wild  bees  have 
hidden  their  store,  he  will  claw  at  the  bottom  till  it 
falls.  Curling  one  paw  under  the  log  he  sinks  the 
claws  deep  into  the  wood.  The  other  paw  grips  the 
log  opposite  the  first,  and  a  single  wrench  lays  it  open. 
The  clouds  of  angry  insects  about  his  head  meanwhile 
are  as  little  regarded  as  so  many  flies.  He  knows  the 
thickness  of  his  skin,  and  they  know  it.  When  the 
honey  is  at  last  exposed,  and  begins  to  disappear 'in 
great  hungry  mouthfuls,  the  bees  also  fall  upon  it,  to 
gorge  themselves  with  the  fruit  of  their  hard  labor 
before  Mooween  shall  have  eaten  it  all. 

Everything  eatable  in  the  woods  ministers  at  times 
to  Mooween's  need.  Nuts  and  berries  are  favorite 
dishes  in  their  season.  When  these  and  other  delica- 
cies fail,  he  knows  where  to  dig  for  edible  roots.  A 
big  caribou,  wandering  near  his  hiding  place,  is  pulled 
down  and  stunned  by  a  blow  on  the  head.  Then, 
when  the  meat  has  lost  its  freshness,  he  will  hunt  for 
an  hour  after  a  wood-mouse  he  has  seen  run  under  a 
stone,  or  pull  a  rotten  log  to  pieces  for  the  ants  and 
larvae  concealed  within. 

These    last   are   favorite    dishes   with    him.     In  a 


Mooween  the  Bear.  201 

burned  district,  where  ants  and  berries  abound,  one  is 
continually  rinding  charred  logs,  in  which  the  ants 
nest  by  thousands,  split  open  from  end  to  end.  A 
few  strong  claw  marks,  and  the  lick  of  a  moist  tongue 
here  and  there,  explain  the  matter.  It  shows  the 
extremes  of  Mooween's  taste.  Next  to  honey  he 
prefers  red  ants,  which  are  sour  as  pickles. 

Mooween  is  even  more  expert  as  a  boxer  than  as  a 
fisherman.  When  the  skin  is  stripped  from  his  fore 
arms,  they  are  seen  to  be  of  great  size,  with  muscles 
as  firm  to  the  touch  as  so  much  rubber.  Long  prac- 
tice has  made  him  immensely  strong,  and  quick  as  a 
flash  to  ward  and  strike.  Woe  be  to  the  luckless  dog, 
however  large,  that  ventures  in  the  excitement  of  the 
hunt  within  reach  of  his  paw.  A  single  swift  stroke 
will  generally  put  the  poor  brute  out  of  the  hunt 
forever. 

Once  Simmo  caught  a  bear  by  the  hind  leg  in  a 
steel  trap.  It  was  a  young  bear,  a  two-year-old ;  and 
Simmo  thought  to  save  his  precious  powder  by  killing 
it  with  a  club.  He  cut  a  heavy  maple  stick  and, 
swinging  it  high  above  his  head,  advanced  to  the  trap. 
Mooween  rose  to  his  hind  legs,  and  looked  him  steadily 
in  the  eye,  like  the  trained  boxer  that  he  is.  Down 
came  the  club  with  a  sweep  to  have  felled  an  ox. 
There  was  a  flash  from  Mooween's  paw ;  the  club 
spun  away  into  the  woods ;  and  Simmo  just  escaped 


202  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

a  fearful  return  blow  by  dropping  to  the  ground  and 
rolling  out  of  reach,  leaving  his  cap  in  Mooween's 
claws.  A  wink  later,  and  his  scalp  would  have  hung 
there  instead. 

In  the  mating  season,  when  three  or  four  bears 
often  roam  the  woods  together  in  fighting  humor, 
Mooween  uses  a  curious  kind  of  challenge.  Rising 
on  his  hind  legs  against  a  big  fir  or  spruce,  he  tears 
the  bark  with  his  claws  as  high  as  he  can  reach  on 
either  side.  Then  placing  his  back  against  the  trunk, 
he  turns  his  head  and  bites  into  the  tree  with  his  long 
canine  teeth,  tearing  out  a  mouthful  of  the  wood.  That 
is  to  let  all  rivals  know  just  how  big  a  bear  he  is. 

The  next  bear  that  comes  along,  seeking  perhaps 
to  win  the  mate  of  his  rival  and  following  her  trail, 
sees  the  challenge  and  measures  his  height  and  reach 
in  the  same  way,  against  the  same  tree.  If  he  can 
bite  as  high,  or  higher,  he  keeps  on,  and  a  terrible 
fight  is  sure  to  follow.  But  if,  with  his  best  endeavors, 
his  marks  fall  short  of  the  deep  scars  above,  he  pru- 
dently withdraws,  and  leaves  it  to  a  bigger  bear  to 
risk  an  encounter. 

In  the  wilderness  one  occasionally  finds  a  tree  on 
which  three  or  four  bears  have  thus  left  their  chal- 
lenge. Sometimes  all  the  bears  in  a  neighborhood 
seem  to  have  left  their  records  in  the  same  place.  I 
remember  well  one  such  tree,  a  big  fir,  by  a  lonely 


Mooween  the  Bear.  203 

little  beaver  pond,  where  the  separate  challenges  had 
become  indistinguishable  on  the  torn  bark.  The 
freshest  marks  here  were  those  of  a  long-limbed  old 
ranger  —  a  monster  he  must  have  been  —  with  a  clear 
reach  of  a  foot  above  his  nearest  rival.  Evidently  no 
other  bear  had  cared  to  try  after  such  a  record. 

Once,  in  the  mating  season,  I  discovered  quite  by 
accident  that  Mooween  can  be  called,  like  a  hawk  or 
a  moose,  or  indeed  any  other  wild  creature,  if  one 
but  knows  how.  It  was  in  New  Brunswick,  where  I 
was  camped  on  a  wild  forest  river.  At  midnight  I  was 
back  at  a  little  opening  in  the  woods,  watching  some 
hares  at  play  in  the  bright  moonlight.  When  they 
had  run  away,  I  called  a  wood-mouse  out  from  his  den 
under  a  stump  ;  and  then  a  big  brown  owl  from  across 
the  river  —  which  almost  scared  the  life  out  of  my  poor 
little  wood-mouse.  Suddenly  a  strange  cry  sounded 
far  back  on  the  mountain.  I  listened  curiously,  then 
imitated  the  cry,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  it  again  and 
of  remembering  it ;  for  I  had  never  before  heard  any- 
thing like  the  sound,  and  had  no  idea  what  creature 
produced  it.  There  was  no  response,  however,  and  I 
speedily  grew  interested  in  the  owls  ;  for  by  this  time 
two  or  three  more  were  hooting  about  me,  all  called 
in  by  the  first  comer.  When  they  had  gone  I  tried 
the  strange  call  again.  Instantly  it  was  answered 
close  at  hand.  The  creature  was  coming. 


204  Ways  of  Wood  Folk. 

I  stole  out  into  the  middle  of  the  opening,  and  sat 
very  still  on  a  fallen  log.  Ten  minutes  passed  in 
intense  silence.  Then  a  twig  snapped  behind  me. 
I  turned  —  and  there  was  Mooween,  just  coming  into 
the  opening.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  he  looked, 
standing  there  big  and  black  in  the  moonlight;  nor 
the  growl  deep  down  in  his  throat,  that  grew  deeper 
as  he  watched  me.  We  looked  straight  into  each 
other's  eyes  a  brief,  uncertain  moment.  Then  he 
drew  back  silently  into  the  dense  shadow. 

There  is  another  side  to  Mooween's  character, 
fortunately  a  rare  one,  which  is  sometimes  evident 
in  the  mating  season,  when  his  temper  leads  him  to 
attack  instead  of  running  away,  as  usual ;  or  when 
wounded,  or  cornered,  or  roused  to  frenzy  in  defense 
of  the  young.  Mooween  is  then  a  beast  to  be  dreaded, 
a  great  savage  brute,  possessed  of  enormous  strength 
and  of  a  fiend's  cunning.  I  have  followed  him  wounded 
through  the  wilderness,  when  his  every  resting  place 
was  scarred  with  deep  gashes,  and  where  broken  sap- 
lings testified  mutely  to  the  force  of  his  blow.  Yet 
even  here  his  natural  timidity  lies  close  to  the  surface, 
and  his  ferocity  has  been  greatly  exaggerated  by 
hunters. 

Altogether,  Mooween  the  Bear  is  a  peaceable  fellow, 
and  an  interesting  one,  well  worth  studying.  His 
extreme  wariness,  however,  enables  him  generally  to 


Mooween  the  Bear.  205 

escape  observation ;  and  there  are  undoubtedly  many 
queer  ways  of  his  yet  to  be  discovered  by  some  one 
who,  instead  of  trying  to  scare  the  life  out  of  him  by 
a  shout  or  a  rifle-shot  in  the  rare  moments  when  he 
shows  himself,  will  have  the  patience  to  creep  near, 
and  find  out  just  what  he  is  doing.  Only  in  the 
deepest  wilderness  is  he  natural  and  unconscious. 
There  he  roams  about,  entirely  alone  for  the  most 
part,  supplying  his  numerous  wants,  and  performing 
droll  capers  with  all  the  gravity  of  an  owl,  when  he 
thinks  that  not  even  Tookhees,  the  wood-mouse,  is 
looking. 


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